Walking the Line
by hairballl26
Summary: Harry didn't think life at Privet Dr could get any worse, until Snape showed up, half dead and bleeding on the Dursleys' new floor. Starts summer after OoTP, keeps everyone in char, follows canon, or what it could have been with a summer like this...
1. Knock, Knock, it's Snape!

This is a Snape/Harry(NOT SLASH, not severitus) story primarily, but will feature other characters as well. I do have a plot for this and a plan to take it into the school year, but no guarantees...I am trying to keep the characters' personalities as canon as possible(though how they relate to each other will change through events in the story, after all, that's why you're reading this, yes?), and this story is heavily influenced by the Battered Snape challenge and Kirby Lane's "O Mine Enemy", which is well worth reading (though still incomplete) if you haven't found it yet.

Warnings/Story-line notes: In my version of the HP world, Harry was at least mildly(is there such a thing?) abused by the Dursley's, Snape definitely had an abusive and neglected past. Events up through OOTP are left in place. This story will be AU starting after OOTP, but will respect nearly all canon past history covered in HBP/DH. i.e Snape/Lily, Spinner's end, Tobias/Eileen, Horcruxes(though I might change some of things used as a Horcrux), Riddle's past, Dumbledore's past. Only thing I might ignore is the whole Deathly Hallows thing, especially the elder wand. It's basically kind of like a fresh twist on book 6, except this time it might better be called The Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter :)

Also of note, _for the purposes of this story, _underage magic is only a ministry reportable/detectable offense when an underage wizard either has an episode of accidental magic or uses their wand to perform a spell at a location that is not considered part of the "wizarding" world. So Harry using his wand to stun Vernon at number four, Privet Drive would be reportable, but Harry casting a spell at Grimmauld place, or Hogwarts, would not "trip" the ministry "sensors". This is probably AU, but the subject in canon is riddled with contradictions, and IFs (As in, _if_ they could detect/trace that, then why not _). Also, my take on occlumency/legillimency, I think, may be more in line with how Snape describes it in the movie - i.e., in the hands of expert, such as Voldemort, it can be used to twist/influence the thoughts of others, not just sense emotion/images/"mind-reading".

So, with that said, enjoy...

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(1) – Knock, knock, it's Snape!

_[Sunday, early afternoon, several weeks after the tragic events that occurred in the ministry of magic during the last days of Harry Potter's fifth year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry]_

Harry scowled at the bacon, pushing it around the pan with a fork, causing grease to splatter. He hated cooking bacon. Hated bacon, in fact, and would never be cooking it all - except that he was hungry and it was the least likely thing to be missed by the Dursleys, seeing as how they kept a near inexhaustible supply of the stuff. At least he'd been spared cooking the bacon _for _the Dursleys though, as they'd headed out shopping first thing this morning, despite the nearly pouring down rain.

A few days ago, Dudley had spilled soda on the keyboard of his computer, with the result that the 'Q' and 'W' keys no longer worked, and ever since then he'd been whining about a new computer. _Bloody ridiculous_, Harry thought as he narrowly avoided another spatter of grease. After all, how much did Dudley really need those two keys? Did he even know any words that used those letters? Did he even know how to read? Did it even matter to Harry one way or the other?

Sighing, Harry's scowl faded, a familiar feeling of emptiness settling over him in its place. He supposed he'd end up with Dudley's old computer, though what good it would do him, he didn't know. Flipping the bacon over, he imagined handing in his potions homework, neatly typed, (and minus any words containing a 'Q' or 'W') to Snape. _"Really sir, each page is about the same as a foot of scroll, wouldn't you agree? And so much easier to read, no ink blots or anything. . ." _With a snort of derision, Harry tried to picture the exact expression that would be on Snape's face – would it be the white hot anger with that little vein throbbing as jars exploded all around? Or perhaps the smug smirk and a hundred points from Gryffindor?

With a jab that almost sent the bacon flying from the pan, Harry wrenched his thoughts away from Snape. There was no point in it, he wouldn't be having any more classes with the man in any case, as there was no way he'd gotten an O on his potions O.W.L., which Harry knew was a requirement for NEWT level potions. Good. He didn't want to take potions. Didn't want anything to do with Snape. Didn't want to take more tests. Didn't want to be an-

CRACK! Harry jumped, his angry train of thought broken by the sudden sound from outside. A moment later thunder rumbled and the rain picked up its tempo, hammering out a steady cadence to make the very walls vibrate. _Just a summer storm,_ Harry thought darkly. He was perfectly safe here, after all, that's why Dumbledore made him keep coming back. This was the safest place in the whole wide world. Right. Safe from Voldemort. Safe from Death Eaters. Safe from wizards, magic, wands, friends, news… was that the door knob turning, there, on the front door?

Harry was quite sure the door knob should NOT be turning, not now, but yes, it unmistakably was doing just that. The bacon spattered, but Harry ignored it, eyes glued to the front door. He hadn't heard(or rather, felt) Dudley's pounding music that should have announced the Dursleys' return from their shopping trip. And now the door was easing open. Maybe the rain was drowning out the pounding music. Yes, that was it, definitely the rain. Look, some of it was even inside now, driven through the widening crack as the door opened.

Unable to look away, Harry didn't even realize he was reaching for his wand until his fingers grasped empty air where there should have been a familiar stick of Holly secure in his back pocket. _Damn Uncle Vernon! _After the events of last summer, his Uncle had taken no chances this time around. From the instant of Harry's return, anything even remotely magical had been locked away. The only concession his uncle had made was Hedwig, and that only to ensure Harry wrote often enough that no wizards came calling. Harry hadn't felt so much like a Muggle since before he'd turned eleven. And a Muggle was no match for any one of the things Harry was imagining might be on the other side of the Dursleys front door just now.

But imagination proved unnecessary when a gust of wind edged around the door, throwing it wide open with a bang. Heart pounding and hands empty, Harry stood, watching, as time stood still and nightmare became reality. _There was a Death Eater on the Dursleys' doorstep._

Dark robes billowing as the fury of the summer storm poured in around him, the Dark Wizard took a silent step forward, entering the house. _The wards - what was wrong with the wards?_ Dumbledore made him come back here every summer because of those wards -_what was going on? _

The frying bacon forgotten, Harry slowly backed across the kitchen. _His wand, he needed his wand – no, he needed a weapon._ In a mad fit of inspiration, the Boy-Who-Lived leapt forward and grabbed the frying pan, and before he could even think of the futility of attacking a Death Eater with bacon, Harry flung the sizzling contents of the pan toward the cloaked figure at the door. But the attack came too late. The Death Eater staggered, falling to his knees as the bacon sailed high over his head.

"Potter. . ." Came a whisper, barely audible, as the cloaked figure continued his slow fall, one arm wrapped tightly about his stomach while the other reached to catch the door frame. But the man hadn't the strength to hold on, and his fingers left a dark smear down the wall as he fell to the floor. Then, seeming to curl in on himself, the Death Eater stilled, resembling nothing so much as a dying spider to Harry's mind. Or rather, a dying bat, Harry amended as recognition belatedly set in._ Snape_. It was Snape.

The frying pan, forgotten, slipped from Harry's fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. Snape – _Snape _of all people, was _here_. In perfectly ordinary Little Whinging. Lying in a crumpled heap across the perfectly ordinary entranceway of the Dursleys' perfectly ordinary home. And all the while the summer storm raged on, completely oblivious to total _wrongness_ of the situation, filling the entranceway with enough rain that the Dursleys' living room was in danger of becoming waterfront property.

Moving in a daze, Harry gingerly stepped over the crumpled form of his potions professor and shut the door, sending the summer storm back outside where it belonged. But the sudden silence that swept through the house in its wake seemed equally deafening to Harry's ears, despite the fact the he could clearly hear Snape's shallow breathing.

Turning back to stare at the man he had last seen trying to take points from Gryffindor, Harry found he couldn't take his eyes off the slowly darkening puddle of water that surrounded the fallen figure. Darkening because there was something that looked suspiciously like blood steadily oozing from underneath his professor's still form. Suddenly, Harry felt like he had just swallowed a dozen snitches and they were all now zooming around in his stomach. What was Uncle Vernon going to do if he walked through the door right now? How long would they be out shopping? They could be back any minute. What was he going to do about this mess? What was he going to do with Snape? Snape. Here. Like this. _Bloody Hell!_

Crouching down, Harry sucked in a deep breath, willing those snitches in his stomach to settle themselves, at least for a moment, before he began, "Sna- uh, Sir, Professor, are you all right?"

_Oh,_ _brilliant start there, mate. Of course he's not all right, he's half dead and bleeding all over the floor –Aunt Petunia's new wood floor, at that. _Wishing he could shut off that inner voice, Harry tried to think of something better to say, but before he got much farther than _"Fifty points from Slytherin for getting blood on the floor!"_, Snape's eyelids flicked open briefly, and his mouth began opening and closing like some pale fish that found itself stranded on a rock.

"Potter. . .tonight. . .don't. . .Dark Lord. . .coming. . .Stay. In. House. " the man managed before his black eyes lost their focus as small fit of coughing rocked through him.

_What was that supposed to be?_ _Some kind of warning?_ Harry was well aware he was supposed to be staying here, in the Dursleys' house; that was the whole point of him coming back to this miserable place each summer, wasn't it? This _home_- it was the only safe place for the Boy-Who-Lived; the Chosen One. Of course, safe was a relative term, and if Uncle Vernon walked through that door right now. . . Harry shuddered. Uncle Vernon would go _completely_ mental if he walked through that door right now. Snape had to go.

"Sna- Sir. . .I. . . you- you've got to get up – you can't be here when Uncle Vernon gets home. . . errr. . . not-not like this. . ." Harry tried, but Snape's eyes had shut tight and he gave no sign that Harry's words had penetrated his greasy head. In fact, he could have been taken for dead, except for the tiny tremors that shook his body, visible even through the heavy Death Eater robes.

Reaching out, fingers poised the merest fraction of an inch above Snape's shoulder, Harry hesitated. It was as if at any instant he expected Snape to leap to life and. . .what? Bite his hand off? Curse him? Harry didn't even see that Snape was holding a wand. Not to mention that this was hardly potions class and he wasn't Neville Longbottom. With a scowl at his squeamishness, Harry dropped his hand to Snape's shoulder and gave the soaked form a light shake.

"Sir, Snape, come on. . . you've got to wake up. . ." But it was useless. If anything, he just curled up even tighter.

_This isn't going well_, Harry thought, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He had to get Snape out of here. But how? And where? His room? Dragging Snape up the stairs to his room wasn't going to be easy, and it was going to make a brilliantly big mess as well, Harry saw, taking a closer look at the mud and blood smeared all over the heavy black robes. But it was the only thing he could think to do that would avert a disaster with the Dursleys. And it certainly didn't look like Snape was going to get up and go himself. Shoving aside all thoughts of what would happen if he were to try this under any sort of even remotely normal circumstance, Harry wrapped his fingers in Snape's soaked robes and gave an experimental tug.

The sudden motion effective where Harry's pleas were not, Snape's eyes snapped open and he twisted wildly, almost causing Harry to drop him and dive for the nearest cover. But it was a short-lived struggle, Snape going limp an instant later as Harry instead shifted his grip to hook his hands under the potions master's arms. With heart pounding and the snitches in his stomach threatening fly out his mouth any moment, Harry wasted not a second more as he began to drag the dead weight of his unconscious professor toward the stairs.

Panting heavily by the time he made it to the first floor landing, Harry paused, stomach sinking at the sight of the dark trail that ran all the way back down to the front door. A trickle of sweat crept down his forehead. A_lmost there_. And thank Merlin that Snape was still out cold, Harry thought as he resumed dragging the unprotesting potions professor the last few steps down the hall and into the small bedroom.

Leaving Snape unceremoniously deposited in a pile on the floor, the Boy-Who-Lived took not even a second to catch his breath before rushing back downstairs, grabbing an armload of towels from the bathroom along the way, and praying that Dudley would take his time picking out that new computer. He tossed the towels down on the largest puddle by the door and then headed to the linen closet for more.

Fifteen minutes and nearly all of the Dursleys' towels later, Harry had managed to erase all but the smallest traces of the muddy trail that dragging Snape through the house had created. Then, stuffing as many of the filthy towels as would fit into the washer, he got the laundry going, hardly daring to hope that they might be clean before his Aunt or Uncle noticed the sudden dearth of towels about the house. And lastly, though his desire for lunch had evaporated, the mess made creating it had not, and he found himself attacking the dirty dishes with a zeal unlike anything he would have normally felt. And then that chore complete left. . .nothing.

Harry glanced around wearily. All looked in order, more or less. The emergency cleaning left him feeling drained, and he took refuge on the couch with a flop, absently rubbing at his scar and wandering what on earth he was going to do next. It wasn't fair. Why did Snape have to show up on his doorstep, why couldn't Sirius have miraculously re-appeared there instead? After all, had anyone asked him this morning, he would have told them that his godfather showing up was the more likely scenario.

And Snape. As in utterly unfair, point taking, Harry hating, head-of-Slytherin, Professor Snape. Upstairs, this very second, in Harry's room. What was he going to do about that? He _hated_ Snape. It was Snape's fault that Sirius was dead. If the git hadn't goaded his Godfather all year about being locked up in headquarters, then Sirius might not have felt the need to rush out after Harry. Definitely the greasy git's fault. A wave of anger rushed over him, and Harry leapt from the couch, stomping up the stairs to throw open the door to his room with a loud(and satisfying) bang. He fully intended to give the hated head of Slytherin a good, solid kick. Or two. The man deserved it.

Snape was exactly as Harry had left him, resembling nothing so much as some leftover pile of dirty black rags. He lay on his back, eyes shut and face tilted to the side, partially obscured by a screen of greasy black hair. Harry stood in the doorway, seething. He really should do it. A few good kicks for five years of snide remarks. For all the points taken, for the unfair Occlumency lessons. For Sirius. Sirius would have done it, Harry thought, would have cheered him on, just like he did for James after the O.W.L. exams.

_His father's O.W.L. exams_- the details of the stolen memory returned to Harry's mind sudden and sharp as the day he'd first dared venture into Snape's pensieve. Watching as his father and Godfather, surrounded by a circle of cheering onlookers, attacked and humiliated another person for no better reason than that he _existed_. . .Harry's anger rushed away like a wave back to the sea, and seeing clearly for the first time since this crazy day had dawned, he looked at the man lying on his floor.

Snape looked terrible. Wet black hair was plastered to his face, which appeared even paler than usual. A thin trickle of blood stood out in sharp contrast as it traced a bright red line across Snape's forehead to collect in a little pool under his cheek. His breathing was shallow and the heavy robes he wore were soaked and shredded, as if some great beast had clawed them to pieces.

Harry found himself slowly approaching the man, both fascinated and repulsed at the same time. He didn't think he could ever recall seeing Snape's face so devoid of some emotion. But lying there, deathly still and with eyes lightly shut, there was no trace of the familiar loathing or anger that should have accompanied any expression to be found on the head of Slytherin's face while in the presence of one Harry Potter. It finally occurred to Harry that Snape might be dying. _Bloody hell._ What could he do?

The snitches in his stomach threatening to return to life, Harry clamped down on the feeling, determined to be smart about this. First – First he needed to see if Snape was really as bad off as he looked. No, wait, first was call for help. That made more sense – There was no doubt Harry was out of his depth here. . .but who to get? And how? Hedwig had just left the night before with letters to Ron and Hermione. She'd likely not be back for at least a week. And his wand was locked in his trunk, which was locked in the cupboard under the stairs, so a Patronus message was out, even he wanted to take a chance with breaking the law against underage magic. And Mrs. Figg was out too – literally. She was visiting family in London.

So, that left. . . what? Harry almost choked at the idea of calling for a Muggle ambulance, but then he seriously considered the thought. Muggle medicine was pretty good; they might be able to save him. But then again, whatever had happened to Snape had probably been magically inflicted, and might not react well to Muggle treatment. Not to mention what would happen when Snape woke up, or when the Dursleys found out. And then there would be forms, and police, and Harry groaned – it was too much to think about.

Back to option number one then. Perhaps Snape wasn't hurt all that bad; before getting Muggles involved, he should investigate. But how to do that? He needed to see the injuries. . . and that meant. . . NO. No way. Absolutley not. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen the ER doctors on any number of Aunt Petunia's favorite daytime dramas do it, there was no way Harry Potter was going to be removing Professor Snape's clothing. This wasn't some show on the telly, this was. . . this was _real._ Frighteningly real.

Harry gulped. He had no doubt that Snape would rather die than have Harry Potter help him across the street, much less remove his clothes to examine him, even if Harry was only trying to help. But. . .what else to do? What would Sirius do? No, wait, not Sirius, bad choice. What would Remus, or even better, Dumbledore do? Dumbledore - Dumbledore would be calm and reasonable. He'd offer them both a lemon drop and then tell Snape that Harry was only trying to help, and to let him. And then Snape would sneer and reply that Harry was an arrogant, spoiled boy who thought far too much of himself and would probably do more harm than good, and. . . _This isn't helping_, Harry thought, wrenching his mind back to the task at hand. He was going to have to do it. It was either that or let Snape ooze blood until he had no more left to lose.

Harry rocked back on his heels, thinking. Snape was wearing Death Eater robes, how did one get those on and off? Buttons? Zippers? Magic? Reaching out, not fully believing what he was about to do, Harry carefully tugged and pulled at the heavy black material, searching for any buttons while trying to avoid actually touching his professor. Snape unconscious was something he absolutely wanted to have right now; there was no way this would work if he woke up.

Finally finding a sort of clasp at the throat, Harry undid it, gingerly peeling back the soaked robes from Snape's shoulders. Underneath was the same black button-up coat that Harry was familiar with from Hogwarts, except that it was now marred by three large gashes that stretched across Snape's front, oozing blood. Carefully, and with no small amount of trepidation, Harry began undoing the line of buttons. Positive that Snape was going to wake up any second to find Harry Potter kneeling over him, undressing him, Harry couldn't keep from stealing a quick glance at his professor's face with each undone button. But a moment later the coat was open, and without so much as a twitch from Snape.

Underneath, the potions master wore a white linen shirt that was now plastered to his chest and not even close to white anymore, dark blood having soaked through most of it. And it was a pullover, so there was no easy getting it open for a better look the source of the blood, which appeared to be three long cuts that wrapped across Snape's stomach. Harry would have to wrestle both the shirt and the coat off the Potions master.

Still dreading the possibility of Snape waking up, Harry was reaching for the Snape's coat sleeve when he almost cursed out loud. Of course! How could he be so stupid – scissors. Why hadn't he thought of that before? After all, on the medical shows, they _cut_ the clothes off.

With an anxious glance at the clock, Harry ran from his room. It was a quarter past one. He didn't know how much longer the Dursleys' would be out - hopefully Dudley would be very selective with his new computer. Maybe grab some games and CDs too. Anything to keep them gone a bit longer.

Downstairs, Harry headed for the garden shed, a set of pruning shears his goal. Pruning shears that he recalled he was supposed to be using to weed the garden with today, despite the rain. Something he'd forgotten all about- along with laundry and dusting Dudley's trophies. It was not going to be a good night, even though he might be able to pass off the towels as having done laundry. But it would be worse if Uncle Vernon found out about Snape.

Soaked from his trip to the shed, but with shears in hand, Harry checked on the laundry, scooping up a few of the least dirty towels before heading back upstairs. Stops by the bathroom and Dudley's room saw a pair of scissors, an old sleeping bag, some sports tape (last used to fix a sprained wrist Dudley had from boxing) and some disinfectant added to the collection. Harry then returned to his room, dumping everything on the floor in a pile next to Snape, who was thankfully still oblivious.

Setting back to work, Harry swiftly cut the linen shirt down the middle with the scissors. The shears he used on the heavier material of the coat, gingerly cutting along the arms. Then, not realizing he was holding his breath, Harry tugged on the coat and shirt, pulling the mangled clothes from under Snape. Ready to dive for cover at the slightest sign of wakefulness, Harry breathed deep in relief as the Potions master remained still.

Snape, stripped to the waist on the floor of Harry's room – the sheer absurdity of the situation had Harry suppressing a nervous giggle. Ron was never going to believe this. He stared, not wanting to look, but unable to tear his eyes away from the man's pale skin, the Dark Mark tattooed on his left arm, and the crisscrossing of more than a few old scars. Or the barely visible ribs that were a sign of someone far too thin to be healthy. Not to mention three parallel gashes stretching from just under his ribcage on the right to just above his left hip. Thankfully above, thought Harry, as he didn't have any desire to remove his professor's trousers. He didn't think either one of them could survive that.

Leaning closer, Harry studied the gashes. They were bad, but didn't appear to be life-threatening. At least, he couldn't see any guts or anything. . .just sticky blood and maybe some muscle. But farther up, Snape's right shoulder looked a bit. . . off – slightly swollen, and beginning to bruise. In fact, Harry realized that the man's whole right side, at least as far as he could see, was beginning to bruise – as if Snape had turned to block some crushing force from that direction. And his trousers on that same side were shredded from the knee down, oozing blood, just like cuts across his middle.

Resigning himself to his fate, Harry carefully pulled the muddy boots and soaked socks from his professor, followed by cutting the trousers off just above Snape's right knee. Underneath, another set of bloody gashes wrapped around his leg, stretching from knee to ankle. _What kind of creature made a slash that wrapped all the way around?_ It had to have been spell-caused.

Harry sat back, thinking. Snape was obviously hurt, but maybe not as bad as he had first thought. At least, not visibly. Harry really had no idea what kind of non-visible damage there was, or if Snape had been Crucio'd. Or rather, for how long he'd been Crucio'd, given that it seemed he'd just come from a Death Eater gathering.

Harry hadn't had many dreams this summer, and those he did were mild, all things considered. They usually left him with only the vaguest prickling in his scar. Clearly, Voldemort was trying to keep out of his head since the incident at the Ministry. But anytime Harry did see clearly, he usually saw somebody getting Crucio'd. So he had little doubt that Snape had received a good dose of the Unforgivable curse. And there was nothing Harry could do about if he had.

_So, what next?_ Harry thought, still finding it hard to believe that the pale figure lying half-stripped before him was one and the same as the man who liked nothing better than to prowl the halls of Hogwarts, cloak billowing, taking points from any student careless enough to caught. But it was, and he was hurt, though it no longer appeared as if he was like to die in the next few minutes. . . unfortunately, Harry mentally amended. After all, dealing with a dead Snape might be a whole lot better than dealing with a live and very, very angry Snape. Which is what he'd get if Snape woke up to find himself here, like this. The man would likely kill him.

Harry stood up and grabbed the sleeping bag. Unrolling the lumpy orange sack, he shook it out, grimacing a bit at the musty smell – it looked like Dudley had not bothered to wash it after the one time he'd used it. Bugger that - it was the best Harry, and now Snape, was going to get. Taking it to the other side of the small room, Harry laid it out on the floor so that it was sandwiched between his bed and the wall, and out of direct line of sight if anyone opened the door. Two towels crumpled together became a pillow (after all, no way was Harry going to let Snape's greasy hair touch his pillow) and then Harry stood back, surveying the makeshift bed. Hardly ideal, but it would serve.

Turning his attention back to his unwanted guest, Harry decided to start with the worst – the larger set of gashes across Snape's stomach. Picking up the disinfectant and a washcloth, he stalled, trying not to think of how much this was probably going to sting and wake up Snape. But in the end, with a courage he most definitely did not feel, Harry took a deep breath and proceeded to tilt the disinfectant, watching as the clear fluid ran out the bottle and into Snape's wounds. The effect was instantaneous.

Snape hissed and curled in on himself reflexively. His black eyes snapped open, filled with pain and confusion. Harry scrambled back, dropping the bottle in the process. It rolled on the floor and spilled at least half of its contents before Harry managed to catch it and put it upright. Snape hadn't seen him yet, but unfortunately the reprieve did not last long as the potions master twisted around, supporting himself with his left arm and struggling to sit up.

"Potter!" he spat, eyes locking on Harry as he pushed himself up to sit with his back against Harry's desk. If looks could kill, Harry would be dead. "What in bloody hell - What are you doing to me?" Snape had shifted his gaze to himself, staring at his bare chest and mutilated trousers.

Harry was sure he was about to get blasted into a gazillion pieces. "Sir, I… uh… you-were-bleeding-and-I-thought-maybe-dying-and..." He faltered as Snape's eyes snapped back to meet his. "I didn't know what else to do…" he finished in a whisper.

"_Not_ drenching me with a Muggle burning potion might have been a better start," Snape hissed, his black eyes shooting daggers at Harry.

"It's not a potion, it's a disinfec-" Harry started.

"I know what it is, Potter!" Snape cut him off, then glanced back at his stomach, before taking a closer look at his surroundings. "What is this place?"

"Uh, this is my relatives' house, the Dursleys. . .You, uh, came in the door and. . . passed out. . . and I brought you up here. . . my room's the only place they'll pretty much never come in. . ." Harry trailed off, not wanting to say any more about the Dursleys to Snape.

Snape just looked at him in disbelief, seeming to be on the verge of saying something nasty, but then he apparently reconsidered, reaching out for his Death Eater cloak instead. Catching the edge of it, he pulled it to him, searching for something. After a moment, he extracted three small bottles from a hidden pocket, two of which had cracked and leaked the majority of their contents away. Snape stared at them dismally, before swiftly popping the cork out of the third and draining the contents.

It didn't have much effect as far as Harry could see, and his professor's next question was not one he wanted to answer, or explain to anyone, especially Snape.

"Where is your wand?"

"In my trunk. Locked up," Harry replied reluctantly. "Uncle Vernon has the key," he added, before Snape told him to go get it. But the head of Slytherin just stared at him, as if he didn't believe a word of it, but was too tired to argue.

"Pass me the rag, Potter, and the disinfectant."

Harry obediently handed over the washcloth and bottle, then backed away to watch, fascinated, as Snape gingerly dabbed at the ugly wounds. By the time he was done with the first long gash his hand was shaking slightly. By the time he had finished with the third, he could barely hold the rag steady. Finishing with the mess of his stomach, Snape finally seemed to recall that Harry was still there. He gestured at the wad of Dudley's sports tape. Harry moved to hand it over while the potions master critically eyed the small mound of towels Harry had pilfered from the laundry.

"Are any of those clean?"

Harry flushed, and Snape snorted his disgust muttering under his breath something about idiots and disinfectant.

"Find something clean. A shirt, perhaps. You do have at least one of those, don't you?"

Harry turned, not trusting himself with any replies, and jerked open the topmost drawer in his chest of drawers. He should toss the git a set of underwear, serve him right. But instead he chose a clean, though worn, t-shirt. Another Dudley hand-me-down, so no great loss.

Snape took it, pressing it against the gashes and then proceeding to wrap the sports tape around himself to hold the makeshift Muggle bandage tight. Harry almost moved to help, but a glare from his professor kept him at bay. Tight-lipped, Harry watched as Snape started in on his leg next. After using another t-shirt and the last of the sports tape on it, Snape looked up again. This time exhaustion clearly showed on the Potions master's face, and the very slight tremors that Harry had first noticed downstairs were again shaking him.

"Sir… uh, I made a place for you. . . over here. . . so Uncle Vernon won't notice right away if he looks in. . . " Harry stammered, desperately trying to figure out how he was going to get the head of Slytherin to do what he wanted him to do. But to Harry's great surprise and intense relief, Snape didn't argue, or make any comment at all. Just shut his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself. Then, half pushing, half pulling on Harry's desk and bed, he managed to drag himself up and stagger over to where Harry had laid out the sleeping bag. He collapsed onto it without as much as a comment about the towel-pillow, wrapping the sleeping bag around himself and over his head, effectively shutting out the world.

Harry sighed, turning away to face the soggy mess left in his room, but before he could even think of the best way to take care of it, he heard a door shut, and his uncle yelling at him to get down and help unload Dudley's new computer. Heart pounding, Harry quickly shoved everything incriminating under his bed as far as it could go, then turned and practically hurtled down the stairs before Uncle Vernon came hunting for him.

* * *

September 2011


	2. Growing up Dursley

_(2)- Growing up Dursley-part1 (Sunday Night)_

_Cold. He was so cold_. Shivering, Snape tugged the sleeping bag tighter around himself as images flashed across his mind, disjointed and bright. _A circle of Death Eaters. Narcissa sobbing. James –no, Harry, Potter, staring at him in a quiet room. Bellatrix smiling gleefully, wand coming up, mouth starting to form a spell. Dumbledore's hand, blackened , the curse spreading, unstoppable. Bellatrix's spell, unstoppable, coming at him-_

Snape jerked, desperately twisting to avoid the white-hot whip lashing out from the tip of Bella's wand, and his world exploded. His stomach was on fire, his right shoulder a burst of agony that echoed down his side, and underlying it all every nerve tingled, stuck in that agonizing space between feeling and not. He lay still as possible. Shallow breaths and an uncontrollable shivering were his only movement as the worst of it slowly abated to a dull agony.

Struggling for control, the potions master tried to put the pieces into place – he was at Potter's house, in Potter's room, the boy had said. . .something about safe from Uncle Vernon here. And there was something wrong with that statement, but he couldn't think of what through the fog in his head. _Potter didn't have his wand_. _Potter was an idiot._ Why didn't the boy have his wand? No. . .why. . .why was it so important that Potter didn't have his wand?

And then terror rushed through Snape like an icy wave. _Standing helpless, defenseless as Bellatrix raised her wand. . .trying to dodge, to run, then agony, white hot, crushing_. He had lost his wand. How? Where? He couldn't remember – he'd had it at the beginning, of that he was sure. But after, just flashes of light and pain. The hiss of the dark lord's voice, disappointed. Trying to shield himself, then someone screaming. Probably him. Bellatrix laughing. Bellatrix shouting. Running through the dark. The sting of branches hitting his face. Bellatrix's fanatic laughter floating after him on the night wind.

He didn't remember apparating to Surrey, in fact, what _had_ he been thinking, coming to Potter's house? He should have gone to Hogwarts. Dumbledore would have taken care of him, and warned the fool boy as well. Potter's fault. Always Potter's fault, making his life miserable, Snape thought, pushing aside the little voice that said there was no way he could have made the walk to the castle from the edge of the apparition wards. Or, even if by some miracle he had, that there was a very great chance that the Headmaster wouldn't have been there. Snape's lip curled. Dumbledore was always off on one secret errand or another these days.

And now, here he was. Wandless. Trapped like a muggle in a cage. And that _was_ Potter's fault. If the idiot boy had his wand, Snape wouldn't be lying here in agony. Shoulder probably broken, too much blood lost, too much crucio, and all but one his healing potions crushed in the bargain. And if boy-hero-of-the-wizarding-world Potter only had his wand, then he could have had healed himself _and _sent warning to Dumbledore. How could Potter be so stupid as to leave himself without protection? Did he really think that Dumbledore's blood-wards were completely infallible? That they could protect him from stupidity? Hadn't it only been barely a year ago that the boy was attacked by dementors near here? _Idiot Potter!_ Snape mentally snarled, his anger causing a fresh wave of tremors to rush through him.

He had to stop this, Snape realized, as the shaking grew worse and threatened to re-ignite the fire in his shoulder. Potter might be a fool, but he was not, and he'd been crucio'd more in the last twelve hours than anyone should rightly be able to walk away from. Recoverable perhaps, but his nerve healing potion had been one of the ones that hadn't made it.

Forcing his thoughts away from his current situation with all the discipline of a master occlumens, Snape steadied his breathing. _Relax_. He willed his muscles to loosen and let his mind wander, focusing on sensations beyond physical misery. Potter's window was cracked open, and he could clearly hear the steady thrumming of rain. He let the soft drone lull him, let himself imagine that he was in the rain, but it was a warm summer shower, running over him, caressing, washing away all the pain…

Snape had reached a rather pleasant half-conscious state when angry shouting and a crash penetrated the self-induced fog of his thoughts. "Boy! …weeds…OUTSIDE! ..….no..don't care..raining!" assaulted him. _What did his father want with weeds? _He thought confusedly, of course they were outside, that's where weeds grew. Wait, that didn't make sense, he wasn't a boy and his father was dead. _Potter_, he realized, finally coming fully awake, someone was forcing Potter outside, in the rain, to weed the garden…and there were Death Eaters coming for him tonight.

Cursing to himself, Snape struggled to sit up, he had to get outside, had to make sure the boy didn't leave the wards. Curse Potter! He had nearly killed himself coming here to warn the boy, and now that stupid-arrogant-spoiled-_brat_ was about to walk into a trap. _I am going to kill you, Potter!_ Snape thought as he pulled himself to his knees, but the world was spinning around sickeningly, and he couldn't keep his grip on Potter's bed. As he slid back down into the sleeping bag and unconsciousness, his last thoughts were on which curse would be best to separate Potter's head from his body.

…

Outside, as the last light of the day slowly faded away, the rain continued its steady fall, oblivious to the shivering teenager angrily ripping weeds from the ground. Harry was so furious he couldn't even decide who he hated most at the moment, Snape, Uncle Vernon, or Dumbledore – In fact, right now Voldemort paled in comparison. After all, at least you didn't expect anything other than pure evil from _him._ If Dumbledore hadn't insisted he come home, none of this would be happening. Why couldn't he stay with the headmaster? The old wizard had certainly said he cared about Harry, right enough. So why didn't he put some actions to his words, Harry thought bitterly, as another innocent weed met an untimely death.

"Harry…oh Harry boy…" a giggly girlish whisper drifted to his ears. He spun around, ready to take out his frustration on whoever now dared witness his humiliation, but there was nothing but an empty street. He squinted into the gloom, daylight was rapidly fading, but he didn't see anyone. Great. Now he could add hearing things to his list of special abilities. More than a little unsettled, he went back to hunting weeds. Uncle Vernon wouldn't be letting him back in until it was too dark to tell the weeds from the flowers.

"Oh Harry….where are your little birdie buddies?" the disembodied voice called out again, then broke into a giggling fit, "I want to play….want to play little Harry? Come out and play…" Okay, now he definitely was _not_ making this up...and he recognized that voice. It was a voice he would never, ever forget. Bellatrix Lestrange. Murderer, torturer. Killer of Sirius. Harry didn't even realize that his hands had curled into fists as he slowly turned around. A cold hatred spread through him, chilling in its intensity, and he welcomed it.

"Come out and play, my little Harry! I know your heeeerrrreee," she called out, the last word eerily lingering in the damp air. Harry stalked towards the voice, not realizing in his desire for revenge what he was doing.

"Come out little Harry, Come out little Sevy, come out and play….we had such a good time last night," she giggled, and then she was screeching, "TRAITOR! I know you're here! LIAR! Cissi's almost dead because of you! Come out! I will find you! And then the Dark Lord will know I am right! Come out, COWARD!"

Abruptly, Harry stopped. Bellatrix's sudden screaming shook loose something that he had nearly forgotten about in the midst of the almost surrealistic events of the day – _Death Eaters. Tonight. Stay in house._ And bloody Hell, he was almost into the street. What was he _thinking._ He had almost let Bellatrix lure him away from the wards, unarmed. He _was_ an idiot! He back-peddled, turning and almost tripping over himself in his frantic haste to get back to the house. Bellatrix's outraged shriek followed him, loud enough to be heard several houses away, at least judging by the lights flicking on in several windows down the street.

He slammed the door shut behind him, and leaned back against it, soaking wet, panting and shaky, as he considered what had almost happened. Unfortunately his consideration was cut short, as a red-faced Uncle Vernon was rapidly making a beeline towards him.

"_What_ was that! Boy! I'm warning you - We won't tolerate any of that funny business!" Uncle Vernon started, his voice rising steadily as he got warmed up, "Fifteen years boy, we've looked after you, fed you, clothed you, no thanks from anyone, and the second my back is turned, you go and make a spectacle for everyone within a mile to hear! I don't care what those freaks said, I—"

"You'll what?Throw me out in the rain? Yell at me? Lock me up forever? You think I _want_ to be here with you? I should be with Sirius! But he's _dead_! DEAD! Killed by the same _freaks_ who are trying to kill me now! You know what? I hope they come in here! I hope they come in here and _kill _you!"

Harry was shaking with rage as he and Vernon Dursley squared off. All the memories and emotions he had been just barely keeping in check since returning home were rushing through him, beyond bursting, and he could no longer keep it all in, not after today. He almost wanted to laugh at Uncle Vernon trying to threaten him, when he was already surrounded by much more real, lethal threats – one outside and one waiting in his room. He hardly noticed Aunt Petunia staring at them from the kitchen, hand pressed over her mouth, or Dudley watching, fascinated, as the fight in his living room became even more interesting than the one on his favorite TV show.

" Why you, you- ungrateful, little- " Vernon sputtered , the vein at his temple throbbing.

"Vernon, No! We mustn't –" his Aunt shrieked. But she made no move to intervene as Vernon's temper finally exploded when Harry started laughing at him. Vernon backhanded Harry across the face with a resounding smack, knocking him to his knees. Then grabbing Harry by the arm, Vernon jerked him up and marched him toward the stairs, all the while spitting nearly incoherent curses about ungrateful boys who should have been in an orphanage. He flung the door to Harry's room open and shoved him in with enough force to send him stumbling to the floor before slamming the door back shut.

The click of the locks turning outside his door sounded with a soft finality as Harry picked himself up from the floor to see the absolute last thing he wanted see at that moment - Snape's black eyes boring into his.

The shouting downstairs had woken him once again, but by the time his thoughts were coherent enough to make any sense of what was being said, the fight had apparently ceased. Or someone had lost, Snape thought uneasily as he heard the heavy tread of approaching footsteps. Warily, he pulled himself into a crouch and edged around the bed so he could see the door. He concentrated on steadying his breathing, focusing his thoughts and shutting out the agony of his stomach and shoulder. He really was in no shape to cast even the simplest charm spell at the moment, let alone wandless magic, but he would _not _just roll over and die for whichever of the Dark Lord's lapdogs was probably coming up the stairs right now. If there was still any chance that his standing within Voldemort's ranks wasn't totally demolished, then finding him here, like this, at the residence of Harry Potter would no doubt be sure to do it. And get him killed for a traitor to boot, as he had no idea at the moment how he could explain this away.

When the door finally flew open and a large man threw Potter to the floor before slamming the door shut again, it was all Snape could do to stop himself from releasing a wave of destructive magic that probably would have blasted them all into a million grisly little pieces. When Potter looked up at him, blood running from his nose and his eye already starting to puff up, Snape didn't know whether to knock him across the other side to give him a matching set of black eyes, or to toss him a rag for the blood.

"_Potter_." Snape hissed, " You're bleeding."

"Yeah, and I thought _I_ was the one who was supposed to have the talent for stating the obvious" Harry shot back viciously, suddenly glad for the fresh surge of anger rising to push back the tears that had been threatening only a moment before.

Snape's eyes narrowed, but he made no immediate response, just stared at Potter for a moment before reaching out to pluck one of the towels from the pile at the foot of Harry's bed. He threw it at Potter before whipping around with a hiss to make his way back to the little slice of the room that was now designated his territory. Instantly regretting the sudden movement, the potions master gingerly lowered himself back into the sleeping bag.

"_Don't. Go. Outside. Again._" The words hovered dangerously for a moment before Snape jerked the cover over himself once more, hopefully for the last time that night.

Harry glared, the towel landing with a soft smack against his chest. Ignoring it, he stood up and grabbed the covers from his bed, ripping them off and dragging them as far away from Snape as his small room allowed. Wrapping the bedcover and sheets around himself, Harry laid down with his back to the room. He wiggled out of his wet shirt and held it against his face, the cold cloth finally having some benefit in soothing the pain and masking the tears that were once again trying to escape.

* * *

September 2011


	3. Interlude

_(3) Interlude _

The rain had ceased falling some time ago as the last rays of the summer sun filtered through the window of the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. Sighing quietly, Albus Dumbledore stoppered the small crystal bottle held lightly in his blackened right hand. He eyed the silvery swirl of the memory contained within; its luminescent beauty in the fading light was deceptive. The contents of this particular memory were anything but beautiful.

Placing it carefully in a niche hidden behind a painting that held an array of similar bottles, he turned and sat, reaching for the nearest of several quills scattered haphazardly about his desk. Smiling softly, he began writing – _Dear Harry, If it is convenient for you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive, this coming Friday…_at least he could briefly bring a spark of happiness to a certain teenage boy, he thought as he wrote. Nearly finished, he glanced up as an unfamiliar owl swooped in, a small box clutched in its talons. Flying unsteadily, the owl dropped the box on Dumbledore's desk with a clatter and then wheeled tightly back toward the window, emitting a high keening wail.

Dumbledore started to rise, his wand lightly held in his left hand, but before he did anything the bird disintegrated with a piercing shriek into a smear of oily black smoke. The hideous sound woke every portrait in room, though none of them yet offered comment in the wake of the grisly departure.

Returned to quiet, but no longer peace, the headmaster sat slowly, his eyes drifting to the small narrow box resting at the center of his desk. Slowly reaching towards it, he paused when Phineas suddenly broke the heavy silence with a call.

"Albus! Don't –"

"Phineas." Dumbledore silenced him with a steady glance, and then continued his motion, not to touch, but to sweep his hand over the box, muttering a spell under his breath. The box emitted a dim red glow, barely visible even in the growing gloom. Dumbledore glanced back at the portrait, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"I don't know, it looks safe enough, but still…"

Dumbledore sighed, shrugging his shoulders fatefully, then reaching out with his wand he gave the box a light tap. The box popped open with no fanfare and Dumbledore cautiously leaned forward to peer inside.

It was as if something had deflated inside him. As if a great icy fist had just reached in and ripped his heart out of his chest. He sank into his chair, letting his head fall into his hands, as his shoulders started to shake.

"Albus, what is it?" Phineas asked, alarmed.

Not trusting himself to speak at the moment, Albus Dumbledore reached out and tipped the box over. A wand rolled out, or rather, two halves to what was once an ebony wand.

"Severus…" Dumbledore whispered, barely audible as tears began to track down his face, "Oh, Severus…"

…..

Night had fallen some time ago at the Burrow, and a handful of order members were gathered in the Weasley's kitchen. Remus Lupin sat at the table idly pushing most of his unfinished dinner back and forth across his plate. Arthur and Mad-eye Moody also sat at the table, a copy of the daily prophet spread out between them showing the headline _Scrimgeour Succeeds Fudge, _while Molly stood directing the dishes to wash with occasional flicks of her wand. Kingsley sat impassively at the end of the table, hands steepled in front of him. When Arthur got up to answer the door, and returned with Dumbledore alone, Remus and Arthur exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Where's Snape? " Mad-eye started off, "Don't tell me he's come up with another excuse to avoid-"

"Severus will not be joining us tonight. " Dumbledore said softly.

Moody snorted derisively, "Albus, look, I know you say you trust him, but-"

"That is enough." Dumbledore interrupted, the icy tone of his voice cutting off any thought of further protest. The air in the room seemed to grow thick as Dumbledore locked eyes with Moody, and for once Moody's magical eye ceased its whirling. Mad-eye finally glanced away, and the order members got their first good look at the headmaster since his arrival. Tonight he truly looked his age, and any trace of twinkle was long faded from his red-rimmed eyes.

Dumbledore then pulled something from within his robes and carefully set in on the table. Slowly locking eyes with each member of the room individually, Dumbledore finally said quietly, "I trust Severus Snape as much or _more_ than any one of you." Then he finally stood back and let himself look at what he had laid out for them all to see – two slender shafts of ebony that should have been one.

As the order members stared at the remains of Snape's wand with expressions that ranged from shocked sadness to grim suspicion, Dumbledore continued, "We will need to make some changes to our plans…"

* * *

September 2011


	4. Growing Up Dursley, part 2

_(4) Growing up Dursley, part 2 [Monday]_

Back at number Four, Privet Drive, the late morning sun filtered in through the bars on Harry's window, warming the orange lump of sleeping bag that hid Professor Severus Snape. He came awake slowly, struggling to sort nightmare from reality, only slowly realizing that they were one and the same. Being _called_, he remembered, and that the Dark Lord had been angry about something…something Bellatrix had said…he sucked in a breath as everything clicked into place. Bellatrix hadn't been able to keep her mouth shut about the unbreakable vow.

Snape pushed the cover back, squinting against the bright sunlight. Potter's house. He had come here. Trapped himself here. In Potter's house. All to warn idiot Potter about the _honor_ Bellatrix had been going to bestow on him last night. But Snape hadn't been quite so incapacitated as she had thought when her screeching had interrupted her curse casting. And then what had idiot Potter done? Gone right out to say hello and practically invite the Death Eaters in for tea.

Very slowly, he pushed himself up to sit with his back to a bedside table. Except for the distant shouts of children at play and the chirp of birds outside, all was quiet. He took in his surroundings slowly, careful to avoid moving, letting his eyes rove about, taking in the chest-of-drawers draped with cast-off clothing and a scattering of muggle newspapers. A half-eaten apple core and a few mostly empty boxes of cereal littered the section of floor that he could see, and bars covered the window just above him. _What_ did Potter think to gain by shutting him in a pig sty with barred windows?

Disgusted, Snape shifted his focus to himself. He was a mess. Hair plastered to his skull with a mix of dried blood and mud, half dressed, wrapped in a makeshift muggle bandage and his right shoulder and most of his side starting to show a rich mottling of black and green bruises, he fit right into this rubbish heap of a bedroom.

Holding his right arm against his chest and as still as possible, Snape used his left to pull himself up. Blinking rapidly, he stood, waiting a moment while everything stopped spinning. When he could see clearly, he snorted in disgust, unsurprised as the rest of the small room revealed itself to be just as unkempt as the dresser, littered with clothing and the occasional white feather. Stepping gingerly and using the furniture and walls for support, he made his way toward the door. The pile of blankets wadded against the opposite side of the room where Potter had apparently slept did not escape his notice, and brought a slight smirk to his face. The feeling was definitely mutual.

Reaching the door, he stood silently for several minutes leaning against the wall, listening. Nothing. He closed his eyes and thought back for a moment, searching his memory. Potter lived with Lily's sister…his Aunt, Petunia. And the man who had been yelling last night, he had seen in Potter's memories last year, would be his Uncle. And they had their own son, he recalled seeing him as well in Potter's memories. It was Monday, so Petunia's husband was probably gone for the day at work. He had no idea what Petunia and her son would be doing though. Or Potter either, except not studying.

Very slowly, Snape turned the door knob. Meeting no resistance, and still hearing nothing, he eased the door open a crack. Perhaps they were all out for the day…doing whatever it was that a normal muggle family did during the day. Quietly, he eased through the door, keeping his left hand against the wall for support. He found himself in a short hall, several doors to his right and stairs leading down to his left. The walls were covered in pictures, mostly of a large round faced boy, but here and there were other muggles, though the only one he readily recognized was Petunia. None of Lily…or Potter.

Still detecting no signs of life, Snape turned toward the doors. Stairs didn't seem like a good idea just yet. Glancing back for a moment, he found himself staring, startled as he noticed for the first time all the locks attached to the outside of the room he had just come from. Potter's room, he had thought. What in Merlin's name had Potter done to rate that many locks – and the barred window? Mentally stashing the mystery away for later, he continued to the next door, pausing to listen carefully before quietly opening it.

Another bedroom, larger than Potter's, but equally as messy. Though the mess in this one was caused more by the clutter of numerous strange looking muggle devices, magazines and clothes, rather than rubbish and owl feathers. About to turn and try the next door, he paused, and eyed the scattered muggle clothes and the open closet speculatively. Hardly what he would choose, but some looked like they may fit. He slipped in, still managing to be silent despite his injuries. After a brief search he found an oversized dark hooded muggle sweatshirt, a t-shirt and set of dark denim trousers that looked like they would fit well enough, at least with a belt.

Exiting the room with his prize in hand and all still quiet, he next tried the door across the hall, finally finding a bathroom. Entering and shutting the door behind him, he leaned back, resting a moment in an attempt to conserve his rapidly depleting energy. Dropping the bundle of looted clothes to the floor, Snape staggered forward and sat on the edge of the tub. A moment later, he had figured out the muggle controls and closed his eyes as warm water rained over him, finally washing away the filth of his latest meeting with the Dark Lord.

…

Downstairs, Harry started as the sound of the shower running upstairs reached him, cutting into his circling thoughts. He was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, which of course would be normal for most boys his age, except that the TV wasn't on. Sirius. Snape. The prophecy. He wished he could forget it all. He had almost managed to forget that Snape was upstairs at this very moment (which was why he was downstairs) and had half hoped that the git would die overnight. Immediately though, he felt guilty at that. He would likely be in a lot worse shape than Snape was in right now if he hadn't remembered the warning last night.

Snape had come here to warn him…and Snape had warned the order about his vision. But Snape had also caused Sirius to leave Grimmauld place with his constant stream of vicious little comments. Sirius was _dead_ because of that greasy git; Harry _refused_ to believe otherwise, and he'd never forgive him for that. _Never_.

And now, the bastard apparently had managed to not die overnight, but was instead up and wandering around the Dursley's. Wonderful. Harry crossed his arms and let his eyes wander over to the cupboard under the stairs. Uncle Vernon kept the keys with him nearly all the time. Harry sighed. Until Hedwig returned, he didn't see any way out of this, unless Snape left the same way he came. And that seemed unlikely, Harry thought, turning over the idea in his mind.

Somebody or something had attacked Snape, and done a lot of damage in the process. He might hate the bastard, but he was in no hurry to be on the wrong side of Snape's wand – whatever had got to Snape was something he had no desire to meet. And, on the subject of wands, Snape had apparently lost his, Harry realized.

Snape must have been found out as a spy and Voldemort let loose on him, or let loose the Death Eaters on him, Harry decided. And he had come here, because here was supposed to be the safest place you could possibly be from Voldemort. Harry scowled, the warning was probably just an extra little bonus, or maybe not even real. Bellatrix probably followed Snape here somehow rather than an actual planned attack. Trust a Slytherin to save their own skin first – it made far more sense than Snape coming here because he actually cared what happened to Harry Potter.

The sound of running water still continued upstairs, Harry realized suddenly. What was he doing? Trying to flood the bathroom? Just as he was considering whether or not he was suicidal enough to find out, he heard a car door shut outside. Oh _no_. Petunia and Dudley were back from boxing practice and grocery shopping. And he hadn't finished the laundry, cleaned up from breakfast, or pretty much anything he was supposed to do. And, oh yes, there was the slight problem of Snape.

Harry tore up the stairs, the lethargy of a few moments ago forgotten. Banging on the bathroom door, he shouted, "Snape! Turn off the water! You've got to be quiet! Aunt Petunia and Dudley are back! Please! Sir!" He grabbed the door handle, shaking it, but it was locked. Just as he was about ready to try knocking the door down, the sound of the water running ceased. Breathing a quick sigh of relief, Harry felt his stomach flutter as the front door finally opened.

"Boy!" His Aunt called, "There's groceries in the car." Petunia swept in, Dudley on her heels.

Harry stood, immobile, his back pressed against the bathroom door. Dudley traipsed over to the couch and flopped down, remote in hand. Petunia headed to the kitchen, a shriek announcing her arrival as she discovered the undone dishes. Not waiting to hear more, Harry rushed down the stairs, giving the bathroom door a nervous glance over his shoulder, as he headed out to the car to bring in the groceries.

…

In the shower, Snape's eyes snapped open as the pounding on the door reached him. What was wrong with him? Falling asleep in the shower? He turned the water off as the import of Potter's words reached him. Running a hand through his wet hair, he pushed it back from his face and carefully extracted himself from the tub, wincing as he did so. The general restorative potion he had taken last night had helped, in that the gashes across his stomach had mostly closed and were no longer threatening to split apart and spill his guts everywhere, though they were still a long stretch from healed. Still, he could forego the muggle bandage, he decided, having no desire to fasten a new one out of the bloody rags of the original.

He pulled a towel off the rack and dried himself. Then as best he could with one hand, struggled into one of the t-shirts, the sweatshirt and pants he had nicked earlier. He used his own belt from his mauled trousers to hold them up, as they were definitely several sizes too large. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. He looked like a muggle. And a shoddy one at that. He hadn't dressed like a muggle since…since he had stopped going home in the summers. Turning away from the mirror and shoving those memories forcefully away, he gathered the remains of his trousers and bandage up in the towel and stood, leaning against the door, listening.

He could hear the sounds of the television and someone bustling about, probably in the kitchen, judging by the clanking of pots and pans. Very carefully, he eased the door open a crack. It was only a few feet across the hall to Potter's room, and he was just about to try for it when the heavy sounds of footsteps on the stair caused him ease the door back quickly. Through the crack he saw a very large boy, about Potter's age, he supposed, but about three times his size, come pounding up the stairs and disappear into the larger bedroom. Standing stock still, he tensed, trying to decide what he would do if the boy suddenly felt a need to use the loo.

For once though, luck was with him, as the boy reappeared and headed back downstairs a moment later, with something plastic and shiny clutched in his beefy hand. The second the boy's head disappeared down the stairs, Snape didn't hesitate, slipping out of the bathroom and staggering the few steps across the hall to crash into Harry's door with a muffled thud. Nearly crying out as his damaged shoulder hit the door and pushed it open, stars swam in his vision and he went down on his knees in Potter's room. Reaching out blindly with his good hand, he caught the door and gently pushed it shut. The soft sound of his own shallow breathing was all he heard for the next few moments, as waited for the fireburst in his shoulder to die down to a manageable level, all the while giving silent thanks that the muggles were apparently still oblivious to his presence.

Being found here, like this – he shuddered to think of it. Muggles were unpredictable. . .and dangerous, at least for a wizard without a wand and barely able to stand. Snape's lip curled in disgust. But himself aside, he couldn't jeopardize Potter's safety. He'd heard the rumours regarding the prophecy, and he believed them, especially since he was personally familiar with at least part of the prophecy. That, and he would die before he let Lily down again. And a boy-wonder Potter might be when surrounded by his friends and protectors at Hogwarts, but Snape doubted theso-called boy-who-lived would last five minutes if these muggles tossed him out on the street right now. And after what he knew from Dumbledore and what he'd witnessed on Potter's face last night, Snape was reasonably certain that these muggles would do that, at a minimum, if they found Potter was hiding a wizard in their house. Especially if that wizard was him, and Petunia recognized him.

As the sounds of Petunia's shrill voice ordering Potter about filtered up to Snape, Snape's eyes narrowed. Yes, he knew _exactly_ what type of muggles these were.

* * *

September 2011


	5. A Summer to Remember

(5) A Summer to Remember

It was only when Uncle Vernon rang to say Aunt Marge was coming in to town to judge a dog show and would be here by dinner that Harry finally found himself released from chores and sent into hiding. Harry felt his jaw drop at the news. If there was anything worse that could have happened (with the possible exception of Snape deciding to walk down and join them all for dinner) Harry couldn't think of it at the moment. Quickly fixing a plate of some of the potatoes and green beans he had been helping his Aunt Petunia prepare, Harry fled up the stairs before any protests would keep him from eating at least something for dinner.

Shutting the door to his room, he almost cursed aloud, as the first thing that greeted his eyes was Snape, laying face down on _his_ bed, dressed in Dudley's favorite sweatshirt and a faded set of oversize jeans. _Just _because he had drug his covers as far away as possible last night _didn't_ mean he had abandoned his bed, Harry thought angrily. Glaring, but making no move to reclaim his bed, Harry set the plate down with a satisfying smack and extracted a mostly clean fork from under some half written letters on his desk. Tucking in, Harry rapidly cleaned the plate, only belatedly thinking that maybe he should have saved some for Snape.

Eyes sliding reluctantly to his unwanted guest, Harry decided it didn't look like Snape would be wanting anything to eat anytime too soon – the potions master was out cold, near motionless except for very light breathing - the only indication he was even alive. Strange, seeing Snape in Dudley's clothes – almost like Neville's Boggart, Harry thought…except this was real. At least Snape looked quite a bit cleaner than last night.

Turning away, Harry sighed. His room was a wreck. He was fairly sure he hadn't cleaned or done pretty much anything other than lay on his bed staring at the ceiling since he'd come home. With a suppressed groan, he slowly got up and started to pick up all the dirty clothes and towels and pile them against the chest-of-drawers. A few minutes later the trash went into another pile, and after that there wasn't a whole lot left. Snape's ravaged clothes he extracted from under the bed and added to the trash pile. The last thing he did before calling it quits on the cleaning was straighten out the pile of bed covers that was most likely going to be his bed again tonight.

Downstairs the sound of the doorbell and a muffled bark announced the arrival of Aunt Marge. Scowling, Harry caught himself idly wishing that Marge would come up and find Snape. The resulting firefight would probably obliterate the Dursleys' from the map. His scowl slowly changed into a grin as he let himself imagine the two of them going at it. But before he could really enjoy it the barking downstairs grew louder, followed by a voice unmistakably belonging to Aunt Marge. Harry couldn't make out what she was saying, but the dog had made a beeline to Harry's door and was ferociously snarling and scratching at it. Ripper definitely hadn't forgotten Harry.

The situation he had been imagining moments ago now threatening to turn into reality, it suddenly wasn't quite as funny. Rather terrifying actually. Snape was still out cold, but Harry could hear footsteps on the stairs, and Aunt Marge's comments on the excellent instincts of dogs when it came to human character were now clearly audible, even over the growling. Not having many other options, Harry did the only thing he could think of; grabbing his bed covers off the floor and draping them over the bed and Snape. Sitting on the edge of the bed Harry folded his arms over his chest and watched the door in trepidation, sure that it would open at any second.

"Now, now Ripper, that's a good boy. Now come along, dinner's ready downstairs. Come dear…" And the sound of the growls changed to eager whines as Marge and Ripper retreated back downstairs. Before Harry could feel relieved though, the door opened and Uncle Vernon's bushy head intruded.

"Boy! There'll be no funny business this time, understand? You stay up here and you stay quiet and you stay away from Marge. No. Funny. Business." And then Vernon pulled the door shut with a snap and Harry heard the sound of locks turning.

Harry slowly eased forward, letting out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Behind him, the covers shifted as Snape stirred, causing Harry to jump forward as if he'd been bitten. Snape struggled against the covers for a moment, blinking rapidly as he pushed them away and turned over, sitting up. He looked confused as his eyes swept the room.

"You're in my bed." Harry said. He'd meant it as an explanation, but it came out sounding a lot more like an accusation to Harry's ears.

"Really." Snape's black eyes had finally found something to focus on – Harry. "Rather looked to me like you preferred sleeping on the floor in a pile of rubbish. I, however, do not."

Harry glared, but could come with up no response to deny the obvious. Instead, he shifted the subject, and this time there was no masking the accusation in his tone. "Why are you here?"

Snape just stared back at him from the bed, his expression no longer confused, but a more familiar slight sneer taking its place.

"Why are there bars on your windows?"

Harry locked eyes with Snape for a moment, then looked away. He told himself he didn't want the bastard reading his thoughts. And he didn't want to talk to him either, especially about that.

"Why don't you just go away."

"Because I won't fit through those bars on your window. And, I do believe that your uncle has also locked all those locks that are on the outside of your door."

Harry looked up at Snape again, scowling. Snape just lifted his eyebrows and gave a small shrug. Which should have caused Harry to feel like punching him, except that Harry noticed the sudden slight clench of Snape's jaw as he moved his shoulder. Loathe as was to admit it, Snape had a point. They were stuck in here together. And Snape was still hurt. Skewering each other with words wasn't going to do anything to make the situation any more bearable.

Harry walked over to the sleeping bag and picked it up. "I want _my_ covers back." He said as he pulled the covers off with one hand and tossed the sleeping bag toward Snape with the other. He supposed that he had just officially ceded the bed to Snape. But then, Snape probably needed it and it wasn't like he had any way to make his professor move.

And Snape was staring at him again, black eyes following as Harry dumped the covers in his spot by the door and then pulled out his desk chair and sat. Pretending Snape didn't exist, Harry pulled out a blank piece of paper. He was going to write a letter to Ron, but he could feel Snape's eyes still on him, burning a hole in his back. Gritting his teeth, Harry turned to look at him.

"Like watching me?"

"Not really."

"Then why don't you go back to sleep….Sir. Or wherever it was you came from," Harry muttered the last under his breath as he turned back to his letter, though he had no doubt that the head of Slytherin heard it. But, miraculously and inexplicably, Snape just glanced down and caught the edge of the sleeping bag, dragging it over himself as he lay back and turned away from Harry. Harry's pen rolled out of his hand and his paper sat untouched as he stared at the orange lump on his bed. What the bloody hell was that? Snape was _really_ out of it.

The clock on Harry's desk ticked over one minute, showing 6:31 AM, when Vernon unlocked the locks on the door. He pushed the door open, not expecting the resistance as it encountered Harry's sleeping form on the floor.

"What the -? Boy. What are you doing on the floor? Never mind. Get up." Uncle Vernon ordered. Rubbing his eyes, Harry stumbled to his feet, not thinking to move out of range before it was too late. Uncle Vernon's fist clamped around his arm and jerked him through the door.

"All right- Petunia and Dudley will be going with Marge to the dog show this morning. You are going to make breakfast right now. After that, I want this placed cleaned up and the laundry done. That was supposed to be done Sunday, boy. After that, you are going to disappear back in your room before they come home. Don't try my patience with you. I'm _not_ afraid of your freaky friends."

And then Vernon released Harry with a shove down the stairs. Following, he made sure Harry got started on breakfast before he slipped out and headed to work.

…

Several hours later, morning sunlight filtered into Harry's room as Harry entered and scooped up a pile of dirty clothes. Glancing at his bed on the way back out, he noted the orange lump still hadn't moved. Maybe he should check on Snape. Right after he got this next load going.

Dumping his clothes on the floor, he pulled the finished load out of the dryer and started folding. Last night had been strange. Arguing with Snape, of course, that was perfectly normal. But at the last, Snape had just backed off and gone to sleep. No cutting comments, no points taken (in advance- Harry didn't doubt that Snape would do it). And that certainly wasn't normal. And still he hadn't moved as far Harry could tell. Maybe he really should go see if Snape was still breathing. After all, the man had been in pretty bad shape when he'd come here, and since then Harry realized, he'd had nothing to eat or drink that Harry could recall. Harry flushed, how would he explain to Dumbledore that he he'd killed Snape by starving him?

Finishing the folding, Harry headed into the kitchen and fixed a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of water. Carrying the food to his room he deposited it on his desk, then turned to the bed. Still no change. Very slowly, he pulled the covers back a little. Snape was still asleep beneath, light breaths giving proof that he yet lived. Harry decided that was enough for now, and very carefully replaced the cover; no need to go poking a stick in an anthill.

Leaving Snape alone to continue sleeping, Harry headed back downstairs. He probably had several hours before any Dursleys showed up, and he had made some headway on the chores. Collapsing onto the couch he stared at the blank TV screen. Since the prophecy and Sirius's death, he'd alternated between wanting to smash everything within reach and wanting to disappear into a dark hole, never to see or be seen again. Which was more or less what had happened when Dumbledore sent him back here, he supposed. Harry wanted to fight, to be a part of the Order of the Phoenix, not stuck here like Dumbledore's secret weapon. He couldn't even practice in this place…or could he? Last time the Dursleys' had locked away his magical things, he'd been able to pick the lock. He was an idiot. He'd been sitting here moping around, when he should have been attempting to get his stuff out. He was sure Sirius would have approved of that.

A half hour later found a frustrated Harry and a bent wire hanger, a paperclip, a bobbypin, and small collection of other no longer recognizable objects clustered around the cupboard door. One lock was off, but Vernon had recently added another, and this one was currently the subject of some the vilest and utterly powerless curses known to wizard or muggle-kind.

"Really, Potter. Such language. What would Dumbledore think?"

Snape. Back from the dead. Harry thought, looking up to see Snape quietly step out of his room.

"Not dead yet? _Sir_." Harry ground out, happy to transfer a bit of frustration to a more deserving target.

"Not yet." Snape quietly replied, his eyes flicking to the door, "The muggles are gone?"

"They'll be back by dinner."

Harry looked up as Snape carefully made his way over to the railing, peering down at him and the mess he was making on the floor. "Well Potter, I wouldn't have thought such an accomplished thief as yourself would have been slowed down so much by a mere muggle lock."

"Perhaps I'm not the accomplished thief you think I am."

"Hmmph. I doubt it." Snape replied, making his way down the stairs. "So…just exactly what are you trying to steal? These muggles not providing everything a young celebrity could want?"

Harry pushed his fists against his eyes, willing himself to remain calm. "I'm trying to _steal_ _my_ wand, and _my_ magic stuff back."

"Your wand is in there, Potter?" Snape asked, voice suddenly soft, the sneering sarcasm of a moment before replaced by an intense interest that was far too great for Harry's comfort.

"Yes…"

"Move."

"Wait, what are you going to do?" Harry belatedly asked as he let Snape approach the cupboard door. The last thing he needed was his professor blowing the door into splinters. No way there'd be any explaining that to Uncle Vernon.

Snape didn't answer, just crouched down and selected one of Harry's makeshift picks. Then, at least as far as Harry could tell, it was some combination of the pick and a muttered _alohomora_, followed closely by a soft snick that announced the successful defeat of the lock. Snape stood back slowly, moving with the deliberate care of someone who knows even the smallest motion will be a minor agony.

Trying to wipe the amazement from his face, Harry opened the cupboard door, the sight of his trunk and beloved firebolt warming him unexpectedly. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his own things – the desire to grab hold of firebolt out and just be gone from here was almost overwhelming. Behind him, Snape made an impatient noise, and Harry sighed, moving his attention to his trunk. Rapidly, he sorted through the stuff. A few books, his wand, the invisibility cloak, and the photos of his friends and family he grabbed to take upstairs. Everything else he reluctantly pushed back down, shutting the trunk, followed by the cupboard door.

Fixing the locks back in place, Harry deliberately ignored Snape's expectant gaze, and instead turned to race upstairs to his room, where he pried up the floorboard and quickly stuffed his treasures into his favorite hiding place. His wand though, he kept, stuffing it in his back pocket and covering it with his shirt.

When Harry returned downstairs, he found that Snape had made his way into the kitchen and was randomly opening and closing cabinets. Pausing, Snape reached into one and extracted something. Jam, Harry realized. He watched, unmoving as Snape carefully located all the ingredients to make himself a breakfast of sliced ham, toast and jam. He even got the bread toasted after fiddling with Aunt Petunia's toaster for a moment, a feat that no doubt would have stymied any one of the of the Weasley's. It was absolutely unreal, Harry thought- Professer Snape, Head of Slytherin House, standing in the Dursley's kitchen, dressed in Dudley's favorite sweatshirt and a dark pair of completely muggle jeans.

Trying to choke back a sudden fit of laughter, Harry coughed, and started to back away, but the sound caught Snape's attention. The Potions Master looked at him with the exact expression that typically preceded a month's worth of detentions.

"Something amuses you, Potter?" Snape said silkily.

"Uh, no…not really" Harry lied, not fooling Snape at all, judging from the dangerous narrowing of his eyes.

But fortune favored the Boy-Who-Lived once again, or so it seemed, as Snape apparently chose to ignore the affront, saying instead, "Bring me your wand, Potter."

Harry hesitated, suddenly on guard. Snape put the piece of toast he was holding down and took a careful step toward Harry, never letting go the kitchen counter.

"I'm not going to curse you, idiot boy." Snape sneered. "Bring. Me. The. Wand…_Now_."

Harry slowly walked forward, with a tight grip on his wand and his eyes locked with Snape's. Snape was glaring at him, his black eyes mere slits in his pale face. But as Harry got closer, still not totally believing he was actually going to hand over his wand to Snape, he got a better look at the potions professor. And he didn't look so good. He wasn't so much leaning on the counter as he was using it for support. And what Harry a moment ago might have mistaken for shaking with rage, now he wasn't so sure, more likely fatigue…or some nasty after-effect of crucio.

Still holding his gaze steady, Harry extended his wand grip first to Snape. Snape snatched it awkwardly with his left hand, pausing for just long enough to make Harry start to believe he was going to get cursed after all. But Snape apparently reconsidered, because he broke Harry's gaze and turned the wand on himself, muttering something that Harry couldn't quite make out. It didn't seem to work, though, because a moment later he tried the same again, though this time Harry could see his jaw clench and little beads of sweat stand out with effort. Either it worked this time or Snape gave up, because a moment later he wordlessly handed the wand back over to Harry and leaned heavily against the counter, staring sightlessly at the half-eaten remains of his breakfast.

Harry watched, suddenly feeling awkward, but Snape quickly recovered, shooting Harry a look of purest loathing before he silently turned, carefully making his way toward the stairs.

Not daring to move, Harry's eyes followed Snape's slow progress up the stairs, all the while thinking that if Fred or George were here they'd be taking bets on exactly how many steps Snape would make it up before falling. Too bad they weren't here for that, because Harry would have won, hands down. He knew Snape was going to make it up every single one, even if it killed him afterwards.

* * *

September 2011


	6. Wolves of Memory

_Ch 6 –Wolves of Memory_

Snape pushed the door shut behind him and stumbled the last few steps to the bed, shaking badly. Thankfully, Potter remained below. He really couldn't deal with Potter at the moment. Collapsing onto the bed, he pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shutting out at least the sight of this prison. Gradually, his breathing slowed and the shaking subsided. It was too much. He really was trapped here, and he didn't see a way out, and for the first time in his life even the magic seemed to be against him. Trying to heal whatever was broken in his shoulder with Potter's wand had been…like trying to channel rain drops through a straw. He believed he may have been somewhat successful with his shoulder on the second try, but the effort it had taken had probably been equally detrimental to everything else, he thought darkly. He certainly wasn't going anywhere right now, that was for sure.

Snape took his hands from his face, and tentatively prodded at his shoulder instead. He hissed and nearly bit his tongue at the flash of pain. Still, it was better than before, he decided. _Damn_ Potter's wand, he had been almost hopeful when he'd realized what the boy had been after behind the locks. It figured though, that Potter's wand and him would be incompatible, after all, everything else about the boy was pretty much intolerable, so why not that too. Frustrated, he opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling.

So…why not just walk away from this little prison? Well, _if_ he made it down the stairs, and out the front door, and there were no Death Eaters standing around waiting to pounce, well, then he'd probably make it at _least_ to the next house down the line before he fell flat on his face in a shaking heap. _I might as well just crucio myself right here, right now, _Snape thought bitterly, and then couldn't help but wonder curiously if that'd be easier to do with Potter's wand than healing himself.

So, simply walking away was not an option, at least not until his body stopped acting as though he'd been hit with a jelly-legs curse. And, anything involving Potter's wand might as well be out too. He doubted whether he could cast a patronus message with that wand, given how difficult even a simple healing spell had been. And that assuming he was willing to cast his patronus at all, especially with Potter around. Snape let his eyes slide over to the cage that sat empty on the small desk. Eventually Potter's owl would come back, he supposed. He knew that the boy was supposed to be letting his friends and the Order know that he was okay. Of course, if this place was Potter's definition of _okay_, then someone ought to get the boy a dictionary, Snape thought darkly, shifting his gaze to stare at the bars covering the window.

Thinking of Potter's family, Snape let his thoughts drift back to the occlumency lessons of last year…_not_ one of Dumbledore's better ideas. Potter had been a dismal student – the boy didn't want to learn occlumency...and occlumency was something that had to be _learned_, you couldn't really teach it. He'd tried to explain that to Dumbledore, of course, especially after it became apparent that Potter wasn't even trying. But Albus would have none of it…just kept insisting that Potter should be quite capable of mastering occlumency and that Severus was right person to teach it. But there was no step one, two, three, and _voila!_ Instant mind shield. You learned it by practicing it. Because you had to. Because you didn't want the Dark Lord sending you dreams. Because you didn't want the Dark Lord in your mind. Because there were glittering black eyes looking into yours and seeing things you didn't want them to see. Snape flinched. He hadn't thought of that in a long time…and he had no desire to now, either.

Jerking his thoughts away from his own memories, Snape lay on Potter's bed, studying the peculiar lumpy texture of the ceiling and considering. He had always thought Dumbledore would have known that the only way to teach Potter occlumency was for Snape to attempt to attack the boy's mind. He'd thought Dumbledore daft, but supposed that it did make a twisted sort of sense to have him be the one to teach it. After all, Potter had nearly as much incentive to keep Snape out of his mind as he did the Dark Lord, so why not? It made sense, though it somewhat surprised Snape, given Dumbledore's usual coddling of the boy and the fact that he was pretty sure Dumbledore had hoped that Snape and Harry would form some sort of friendship during the lessons. There was no doubt that Dumbledore wanted him to like the boy. Who knows, maybe there _was_ a step-by-step method…_Occlumency for Idiots, _he thought, the corners of his lips twitching. He'd never asked the headmaster how he had learned the art, and Dumbledore had never really asked Snape how he had learned it so well either. _Maybe he thought I was just born knowing_. The almost-smile faded as Snape thought about it. Dumbledore had never asked Snape, just taken it for granted all those years ago when he first turned spy, that Snape would be good enough to keep it from the Dark Lord. Snape didn't know whether to be pleased that Albus had thought so highly of his abilities or angry that maybe the headmaster hadn't cared if he'd been caught. Either way, it was long past and mattered little now.

Snape sighed, shutting his eyes. He really should get a letter ready for whenever Potter's owl decided to show up. But the energy to get up was gone and he was cold. Gritting his teeth, Snape mustered what little reserve he did have and rolled onto his side, dragging the sleeping bag back around himself, once again shutting out the world for the time being. As he drifted off to sleep, he was thinking how nice it would be if he could just wake up in his rooms at Hogwarts - alone, safe and free of Potter, muggles and wizards who wanted something from him..

…

Dumbledore sat in his office, blankly staring at a small spot on the wall a few feet away. He thought it looked rather like a palm tree. He could even make out the coconuts. Without taking his gaze from the palm tree he reached out mechanically and popped a lemon drop in his mouth, the process so ingrained that he didn't even taste it anymore. Only when he reached for the next one and realized that his pile of the sweets had finally diminished to nothing did he look away.

Letting out a quiet breath he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. The past two days had been trying, even for him. Severus had known a lot, and all had been ominously quiet since the delivery of the wand. At first, he had been sure that Severus was dead, finally caught as a spy, but as Alastor had pointed out several times now, a wand was not a body. In his heart he knew Severus had not betrayed him, but the others were not as sure. The theories ranged from outright betrayal and deliberate planting of the wand to dark scenes of torture and death or captivity. And at the least, even he had to admit the possibility that Tom now had any information that Severus had been privy too, whether it had been willingly obtained or no. Which was something he had tried to avoid thinking about, but which he continually found his thoughts returning to. What had tipped off Tom? Why now? Severus was undoubtedly a powerful occlumens…he had been that way since he had first turned spy for Dumbledore. Though now Dumbledore cursed himself– why had he never given the matter much thought? How could someone so young really have been that adept at such an obscure art as occlumency? He should have paid more attention, offered help, instruction. But no, he had just taken Severus at face value when he'd said he'd be able to keep his thoughts from the Dark Lord. Dumbledore dropped his face to his hands, losing the battle once more to keep the tears safely shuttered behind his eyes.

"Albus, my dear….what is it now?" The portrait of Dilys Derwent, famous healer and once headmistress asked softly. "Albus, you've done naught but cry or whirl about in a flurry…"

"Ah Dilys," Albus said, looking up as he brushed away the tears. "I fear I have made a terrible mistake...overlooked a detail…and it may have cost a good man his life…or worse. Severus…"

"Tsk. Albus, you take on far too much – overlooked a _detail_?"

"Ah, but is life not just many details, Dilys? Alas, and this one, tell me, would you not find it odd that a young man of twenty should not think it a problem to keep his thoughts from Lord Voldemort? I didn't. Not then…I didn't even ask…"

"That is absurd, Albus." Phineas cut in to the conversation. "When Severus Snape was twenty you had more pressing things on your mind than how he came to possess his talent for occlumency. He said he could do it, and he did. End of story….unless you believe he never did keep anything from Voldemort?"

"No. Severus was able. Then…and now." Dumbledore stated, looking to Phineas. "You are right, and I, I am getting too old for this," Dumbledore sighed, his eyes drifting to stare at his blackened right hand.

"Well, that _is_ true," Phineas began, but the sudden flare of green flames from the floo cut him off.

As the flames receded, Hermione Granger stepped through, closely followed by Remus Lupin, pulling at a rather large trunk that seemed stuck in the floo. Giving it a jerk, he freed it and stumbled back a few steps, bumping into Hermione and sending them both into a sprawl before Dumbledore's desk. Neither seemed in any particular hurry to get up.

"It is done" Lupin said, looking sadly to Hermione, as she mechanically got to her feet. "They left for Australia this morning."

Dumbledore, glad for the welcome distraction of their arrival despite the grim circumstances, indicated Hermione should have a seat in a particularly obnoxious overstuffed purple velvet couch. He came round from his desk and sat next to her, looking down to meet her wooden gaze over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

"Miss Granger, your parents will be safe now, because of you." Dumbledore said softly, as Hermione met his eyes, her jaw set stubbornly.

"I know."

"We will be able to return their memories to them, and they will come home, in time. You can never truly forget love, Miss Granger. " Dumbledore said, the compassion in his words finally breaking through as Hermione let go the sobs she had been holding back. After a few minutes she wiped her eyes and looked up, determination pushing back the tears.

"Miss Granger, Dobby has volunteered to make you at home and help you set up your things in the Gryffindor girls dormitory, if that is agreeable to you?"

"Yes of course, sir...thank you…for everything," Hermione replied, standing as Dobby popped in, chattering his welcome excitedly as he took charge of her trunk.

"Oh, and Miss Granger, Hogwarts is at your disposal, more or less," Dumbledore smiled, the twinkle briefly reappearing in his eyes, "Feel free to use the library – Madame Pince is away for the summer, but I trust you will exercise due caution."

"Yes, thank you sir," Hermione said gratefully as she followed Dobby out.

This morning, just before lunchtime, there had been a knock on the door at her house -  
Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt. They had been grim faced, Kingsley taking her parents aside while Remus came to her. He'd looked her straight in the eye, and said that there had been some. . .developments, and it would be best if she packed her things as quickly as possible. Of course, she'd demanded to know what, but all he would say was that You-know-who might have some new information, it wasn't a good idea to talk about it, and that the order thought it was safest if she were to stay at Hogwarts until the start of term. Kingsley was taking care of her parents – he'd already made the arrangements, they would be on a plane to Australia this evening - having forgotten that they had a daughter.

A small sob escaped as she made her way down the stairs. It was for the best, she knew. They would be safe, and happy, and far from the dangers of being caught in the middle of a wizarding war they could not truly understand or defend against. She could have gone too, probably should have, but Remus had given her the choice, and she had chosen to stay. This _was_ her world, and she had no intention of running. Harry needed her, and Ron, and neither one of them had the option to run away -especially Harry. Drying her eyes one last time, Hermione looked up as she reached the bottom of the staircase, her jaw clamped in grim determination. She had much to do, and no time to be sad.

…

Back in Dumbledore's office, Lupin had settled himself into a chair and steepled his hands in front of his face. He was tired, but it was a week yet to the full moon, so he supposed he was feeling about as good as he could, given the recent events. "Still no word?"

"Nothing. Nothing from Severus, no new attacks, nothing. In fact, if Scrimgeour hadn't replaced Cornelius, I'd be worried that Tom was trying to go back into fooling the ministry that he hadn't really returned again."

"Scrimgeour definitely isn't buying that. I talked with Tonks yesterday, and she said that he's got the Aurors so busy looking under every bed and in every broom closet, randomly interrogating practically any person walking down the street-wizard or muggle, that half the population is more scared of them than the Death Eaters. If there is an attack, they'd be lucky to even know about it, much less be ready to respond."

Dumbledore sighed, wishing his pile of lemon drops wasn't depleted. Shifting the the subject, returning to his thoughts before the interruptions and ignoring Phineas's disgusted grunt, he asked, "Remus…what do you know of Severus's childhood?"

Lupin looked up, surprised. Where on earth had that question come from? "I…well…not a lot, outside of Hogwarts. Here, well, James and Sirius hated him, and the feeling was certainly mutual, but…you know that…" he trailed off, uncertain what Dumbledore wanted to know.

Dumbledore smiled sadly, "Yes, that I know…"

Lupin sat quietly, studying Dumbledore. He looked tired and thin, more so than Remus had ever remembered seeing him, even in the first war. The loss of Snape had hit him hard. Remus wandered if that was because he thought Snape was dead or because he thought Snape had betrayed them. No, the headmaster had been adamant in his trust for Severus, it wasn't that. Remus considered, staring at the embers in the fireplace and thinking back on times long past.

"Once… I remember seeing him, outside of school," Lupin began, not sure if this is what Dumbledore wanted or not. "It was the summer before my first year, in Diagon Alley. There were a lot of us there, buying our first school supplies, but I didn't know anybody yet then. I was very excited to be coming to Hogwarts." Lupin said wistfully, a small smile lighting his face as his eyes looked far away, into the past.

"I remember Snape that day, because I remember seeing him and thinking that maybe I wasn't the poorest boy coming to Hogwarts. A terrible thing to think, but I was just a boy, thinking only of myself and my own problems. Though on the lighter side, I suppose then I saw him as a potential friend…he looked as shabby as I did, so I supposed we had something in common. He was dressed like a muggle, more or less. Looking back now, I'd guess the clothes were mostly his father's, everything he had was either too big or a year or two out-grown. " Lupin frowned, seeing the image of a young, too skinny boy with stringy black hair and a worn muggle leather jacket hanging down nearly to his knees. That boy had been looking around, wonder and excitement clear in his black eyes.

"He was with Lily Evans...and a bunch of muggles-Lily's parents, and her sister…Merlin's beard, Albus" Lupin exclaimed softly, "Snape knew Lily before Hogwarts…and her sister…Harry's Aunt…I never realized. Though it explains a lot…none of us ever really understood how Lily could be friends with him, he was a _Slytherin._ And one of the darker ones at that…I always thought it was just because Lily was such a kind person…if she could be so kind to me, a werewolf, I supposed it wouldn't have been so far-fetched for her to have seen something in him as well...she was like that, you know, always seeing the best in people."

Lupin looked to Dumbledore, shocked to see the tear tracks running into his beard. Looking away, self-conscious in the face of the headmaster's pain, he sighed. "You know Albus, that day – Snape was happy. We all were. It was before...everything."

Quietly, Dumbledore got up and rummaged in a cabinet that stood against the wall, back to Lupin. Returning, he set two glasses on his desk and a bottle beside them, pouring a drink into both. A moment later and both wizards sat staring into the fire as the last of the day's light departed, leaving just the soft glow of flames reflecting in the glasses.

"To happy memories, Remus…may there be more yet to come."

* * *

September 2011


	7. Thrashing

(7) – Thrashing

Harry looked up from his spot on the couch as the door opened and Uncle Vernon entered with a scowl on his face. Judging from the set of Vernon's jaw, Harry knew he should have gone upstairs when he heard the car pull in the drive. Vernon practically stalked over to the kitchen table, depositing his briefcase with a loud thwack, muttering something under his breath about idiots and accounting.

"Boy! Make yourself useful and get some tea going." Vernon barked, as he headed back to settle in front of the TV.

A half hour later the tea was just ready as Marge, Petunia, and Dudley came in from the dog show, Dudley whining something about a puppy as he flopped down on the couch. Petunia chased Harry out of the kitchen and Marge headed upstairs to freshen up before dinner. Harry was headed for a safe retreat to his room when he heard a familiar tap-tap on the back door. _Hedwig!_ Darting through the kitchen he had just managed to open the door when he felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" his uncle growled as a flash of brown feathers rushed by them with a flurry of wingbeats. With a glance upstairs, Vernon cursed and scrambled for the post owl, dropping his grip on Harry.

"I told you! No more of this freakish business! Not under my roof! And especially not when my sister is visiting!" With a lucky snatch he caught the owl by a few tail feathers, causing it to shriek and flap madly. Twisting around, the angry bird dropped the letter it held to the floor and bit Vernon's hand. Vernon promptly let go, howling, and the owl launched itself with an explosion of feathers and a shriek out the door and into the safety of the evening sky.

Harry lunged for the letter, still desperate for any contact from the his friends even if it hadn't been Hedwig, but Vernon grabbed him from behind, shoving him back into the kitchen table. Landing in a tangled heap with a chair, Harry could only watch helplessly as his uncle bent over to pick up the letter. Only an hour earlier Harry had decided on leaving his wand stashed in hiding under the floorboards in his room. After the Snape incident that afternoon, he'd thought maybe it better to not carry his wand around inside the house– either Snape would get it or he'd end up expelled or arrested for underage magic when the temptation to curse one of the Dursley's became too much to resist. Like right now.

"Hah! Bet you'd like to have this, wouldn't you?" His uncle spat triumphantly, wiping his hand across the front of his trousers in a futile attempt to staunch the blood now oozing from the bite. "Well, that's too bad, because the only place this is going is up in flames!" And then Vernon laughed as he waddled over to the fireplace and lit the letter with a match. Flames curled up the edge of the envelope, gradually eating away the great curved letters that said _Mr. H. Potter_ in glittering green ink as Vernon held it suspended in his beefy hand for Harry to watch.

Harry finally extracted himself from the tangle with the chair and stood, rage washing through him like a great red tide. And he welcomed it with open arms. That was _Dumbledore's_ handwriting. Then before he knew what he was doing, Harry launched himself at his uncle, the momentum of his attack causing them both to slam into the wall, bringing down half of Dudley's pictures with a great crash of shattering glass. Not even feeling the glass, Harry tried to wrap his hands around Vernon's throat, but it was too fat for him to get a good grip. _Kill him! Kill! Make him suffer!_ _He deserves it!_ Waves of red hot anger coursed through Harry, threatening to consume all reason and setting off alarm bells off deep in his mind. _No! This wasn't right. This was- This was Voldemort!_ _GET OUT!_ _GET OUT OF MY MIND!_ Harry screamed, unable to distinguish between the mental cry and the real thing. He convulsed, his scar exploding with pain, Uncle Vernon forgotten as he desperately forced his thoughts to images of Ron and Hermione and Sirius. But the love he should feel for them seemed a dim thing, a vague and distant memory. _No!_ _Get out! _He thought frantically_ - _his parents – and he brought to mind the memory he used for his Patronus. And the familiar focus proved like a key, as he suddenly felt the deep love in that one powerful moment course through him, pushing the blinding rage away like so much flotsam before a flood. Abruptly the pain in his scar ceased as Voldemort hastily withdrew, leaving Harry limp and panting, a cacophony of sounds and vision assaulting him. Unable to focus on anything and hardly even remembering what he and his Uncle had been fighting over, Harry felt a sudden sharp pain in his side. Whatever it was, Uncle Vernon had not forgotten, and was now looming over Harry in a dark blur.

"Vernon, stop! Stop! You'll kill him!"

Another painful blow and he felt something pop as he tried to roll away. He could see another, smaller blur out of the corner of his eye that suddenly resolved itself into his Aunt, frantically tugging at the back of Vernon's shirt. Harry tried to back away but came up against the wall, his hand slipping on something wet.

"Vernon! Don't dirty yourself with that little mongrel- here now, let me pour you a nice glass of brandy." And that was Aunt Marge, standing on the top of the stair in her bathrobe, "Seriously Vernon, kill him and think of the paperwork and the investigations. Far simpler to pack him off to the orphanage- first thing in the morning - I'll help."

The rain of blows stopped, and the only sound for a few moments was Vernon's heavy breathing. Then he grabbed Harry's shirt and pulled him to his feet with a jerk, causing the world to spin a smear of color around Harry as he tried to keep from falling. With his Uncle half carrying, half shoving him, he was forced up the stairs and thrown forcefully through the door of his room.

"Freakish friends or not, boy, you try anything like that again on me or my family and I _will_ beat you to a bloody pulp. Understand?" Vernon growled before he slammed shut the door, leaving Harry in the dark and seemingly alone, though Harry could just make out the steady breathing of the still sleeping Snape before he succumbed to the deeper darkness of unconsciousness.

…

_He was standing in a clearing, the cold wind sliding across his bare face but a forerunner of the storm to come. At his side others stood, dark and faceless, their robes rustling as they shifted, restless. Whispering. Eager. But he, Severus Snape, he stood utterly still. like a rat in a maze by red eyes that held his own with an unimaginable force, pulling him down, down until he was no longer in the forest, but in a small room, alone. He turned, and the Dark Lord stood before him in the doorway , holding a familiar ebony wand. Taunting. Snape looked down at the wand in his own hands, only to find it wasn't a wand at all, just a stick of Holly. Numb, he looked back, watching as the Dark Lord ever so slightly began to apply force to both ends of the wand. Laughing. A hissing cackle. Behind him now, Bellatrix, a fanatical smile lighting her face, as she raised her own wand, her mouth just beginning to form the first curse, and his own wand, bowing, bending in the Dark Lord's hands- light gathering at the tip of Bellatrix's wand– brilliant red – the sound of snap- NO!_

Snape jerked awake with a gasp, throwing himself forward in a desperate attempt to save his wand before he realized that it was just a dream. But the agony that tore through him at the violent movement was anything but a dream. He was soaked in sweat, shaking, and about to be sick, he realized in horror as his stomach violently rebelled. A few moments later he lay panting and shakily wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Fortunately he hadn't really had anything to eat since coming here.

Very slowly, he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. His shoulder and ribs were throbbing again and he thought he might've pulled open some of the gashes across his stomach with his sudden movement. Cradling his right arm against his chest, eyes shut tight, he tried to ignore the pounding of his heart and listen instead to the soothing sounds of the night as they filtered in from outside. A gentle breeze rustled through a nearby tree and crickets softly called, the chirping cadence reminding him of summer nights long past. A few minutes later he let out a quiet breath and opened his eyes, thinking a quick trip to the loo to splash a bit of cold water on his face was something he could do with right about now.

Standing unsteadily, Snape began to make his way toward the door, hoping that the fat muggle hadn't locked it. He was almost there when he stepped in something wet and sticky. Looking down, he could just barely make out the form of Potter lying face down in an awkward tangle of limbs, looking like he had just fallen from the sky and landed in a heap, a good three feet away from pile of linens that were his bed covers. _What the hell?_ Stiffly, Snape lowered himself to take a closer look, but it was too dark to make out any detail other than that Potter was still alive, as evidenced by the raspy scrape of the boy's breathing. He glanced at the clock on Potter's desk - 3:41 A.M. Very slowly Snape brushed the tips of his fingers across the dark puddle pooled around Potter's limp from. Holding his hand up in front of his face, he had to force himself to look, though he already knew what he would see. Blood glistening wetly on his fingertips in the dim light cast from the clock on Potter's desk.

Fighting to keep his breathing steady, Snape squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He refused to believe what his gut was telling him. This had to be the result of some accident, some attack. Maybe Potter and his cousin had gotten into a muggle fight. Yes, that made sense, and he of all people knew of Potter's penchant for trouble…refusing to consider any further, he pushed all thought of how and why aside. Only a very slight tremble betrayed the suppressed turmoil as Snape reached up to flick the switch on Potter's desk lamp.

He should have left the light off. He despised Potter; despised his arrogant remarks, despised his constant flouting of the rules, despised his mediocrity. And he would _never _forgive Potter for the vicious _violation _of his memories in the pensieve last year. But even so, Snape had no desire to see this, not at all. Not even on Harry Potter. The so called boy-who-lived was lying in a small pool of blood, several deep lacerations tracing a random criss-cross around his left palm and wrist. His left eye was swollen shut and blood smeared across his face and hair, at least what Snape could see of it. Red marks blossomed across his chest, visible where the skin was exposed by a jagged rip in his shirt. His glasses were still hooked around one ear, but looked to be smashed far beyond repair, a twisted tangle of metal pressed into the boy's far too pale face.

Snape's lips twisted in a mockery of a smile and he almost barked out a bitter laugh. Here he was, Death Eater and spy, Hogwarts professor and head of Slytherin House, trapped like a muggle in a prison with Harry Potter, boy-who-lived and son of his worst enemy. Snape could barely take care of himself at the moment, had no wand, no potions, and no communication- and now the boy he was supposed to be protecting was nearly dead at his feet. Wonderful job he was doing, really.

Why hadn't the muggles taken the boy to the hospital? Wait, no, he really didn't want to know the answer to that. Not right now. Letting out a slow breath, he looked around the tiny room-anywhere but at the still form on the floor. Perhaps the damage was mostly superficial, but his experience with muggle-inflicted injuries that looked like that said not. Potter needed help, and the options were limited. If he went to the muggles…no, that wasn't an option…at the least they were already blatantly neglectful to leave the boy like this, and at the worst…he didn't want to consider that. He supposed he could slip out before the muggles woke, he didn't really think the Death Eaters were actually constantly watching the place, but he honestly wasn't sure that he could make it far enough to get help. And, that would leave Potter alone with the muggles.

_Muggles._ He _hated_ muggles. _Nothing good ever comes of muggles_, Snape thought angrily. Looking at the clock again, it showed 3:56. At least he had a bit of time before anyone was likely to be up. So, last option - Potter's wand. He sighed. Probably just as likely to be successful as the others, but at least it could be attempted without disastrous consequences…if he could find the near worthless stick. Carefully, he patted down Potter's pockets-no wand there. _Of course_ the idiot didn't have his wand on him, because, well, that would be the intelligent thing to do, wouldn't it. Probably wanted to be thrashed by muggles, the dunderhead.

Snape thought back, trying to imagine what Potter would have done with it. That afternoon, Potter had extracted a small armload of stuff from his trunk and dumped it up here somewhere. Snape slowly rose, jaw clenched tight against the pain that lit through him like an aftershock of crucio. Looking around he didn't see anything other than rubbish and dirty clothes. Resigned, he turned to the nearest drawer and commenced searching.

The clock read 4:47 by the time he found Potter's secret stash under the floorboard, and he was exhausted, despite the fact that all he had done for most of the last couple days was sleep. Potter hadn't shifted so much as an inch while he'd searched, giving proof to the suspicion that the boy was unconscious rather than asleep. Kneeling over Potter, he held the wand awkwardly in his left hand, ready to give it a go, unlikely though success may be.

"_Dagnasio_" Snape muttered , subtly flicking his wrist towards Potter, or trying to, at least. A dull glow misted at the tip of the wand, but quickly dissipated. Snape scowled, then gathered himself for another attempt. This time he shifted the wand to his right hand, smothering the small cry that tried to escape as he lifted that arm. Considering briefly, he decided on a new approach. Occluding his mind, he shut out all emotion and feeling, past and present, regarding Potter. He tried to drown all aspects of his own personality and think of himself as something smooth, neutral, with no particularly strong inclinations. Carefully maintaining that state of mind, breathing in and out in a deliberate, steady rhythm, Snape cast the diagnostic spell again.

This time a thin stream of blue light snaked unsteadily over to Potter, and lit him briefly in a misty cocoon. The effect didn't last long, but it was sufficient. Three broken ribs, severe bruising to the side and face, bone around the eye cracked, broken nose, and several deep lacerations on his left arm and hand. Outrage clawed at Snape's mental shields, but he smothered it quickly with practiced reflex. So long as he kept himself occluded and worked the magic through that self-imposed filter, it seemed the wand at least wasn't trying to fight him, even if it wasn't exactly working with him either. With that in mind, Snape forced even farther away all sensation and feeling of his own, and set to work in an attempt to heal at least the worst of Potter's injuries.

Fresh beads of sweat popping out against his pasty skin, Snape struggled to control the flow of magic pulsing through the Potter's wand. It was a constant battle to keep it from doing more harm than good as he forced out the intricate flicks required in a bone-mending spell; he and Potter's wand were _not_ meant for each other.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the wand finally fell from his fingers, which were twitching in odd little spasms. He tried to look at the clock, but the numbers ran together and he couldn't make sense of them. It was still dark outside, but he thought he heard birds calling for the sunrise. He knew he'd managed the worst of it. Potter would still feel as if he'd been trampled by a hippogriff, but the broken ribs, broken face, and broken nose were set and would take another good thrashing to re-break. The cuts were sealed, but he could do nothing about the blood loss; though he didn't think it too serious unless there was a lot more of Potter's blood downstairs.

Snape's eyes flicked to the blurred shape of Potter's wand on the floor where he had dropped it. He should try to cast a Patronus message to Dumbledore while the boy was still out cold. Then he wondered how he was going to do that with everything emotional locked away and occluded. Hah. Probably not going to do that at all. Of course, the benefit was that at the moment he didn't feel a thing. He grinned, only vaguely alarmed or aware that his thinking was rapidly deteriorating into an incoherent ramble. Reaching for Potter's wand, his fingers swiped only empty air, the wand seeming to have moved just out of range. Or, maybe his arm had just shrunk. That could be it too. He decided to let the wand be. If the horrid thing didn't want to be caught, who was he to force the issue? He didn't like it anyways.

He tried to stand, but found himself sitting instead, his back against the bed. Blinking, Snape thought about that. He had done everything right, he was sure. He should be standing. Morning was almost here, and if he didn't make it outside to the lavatory now, his father might catch him on the way back in. Then he'd end up just like Potter there on the floor. And he certainly had no desire for that to happen. Wait, that didn't make sense...but he couldn't think of why. In fact, thinking at all seemed a bother. Better to just sit here, it really wasn't such a bad spot.

Snape's eyelids fluttered shut, but just as he was about to drift off, they snapped open again. It _was_ a bad spot. He couldn't remember why, that was far too buried in a thick soup of disjointed images. But he knew he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be hidden. And if he was supposed to be hidden, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he absolutely did not want to be found. Everything was a blur around him, but the open space in front of him made him feel exposed. Crawling on hands and knees, he followed the edge of the bed around until he was wedged into the narrow space between it and the wall. Pulling his knees to his chest, he made himself as small as possible, the pain across his stomach and shoulder at the position merely a distant buzz in his mind. Letting his head dip towards his knees, he could no longer keep hold of consciousness; his eyes finally shutting as the oblivion of utter exhaustion claimed him.

* * *

September 2011


	8. Wednesday

(8) – Wednesday

Harry groaned, his head was pounding in perfect synch to the pulsating beat of Dudley's music, which was currently blasting through the thin wall separating their rooms. He was lying on the floor, cold, with a horrible coppery taste in his mouth. He tried to lick his lips, but it was like his mouth was full of cotton and he thought somebody had transfigured half his face into a bludger. Pushing himself over to lay on his back, he squinted up at the ceiling, sifting through the memories of last night's events. Never before had he been thrashed like that by Uncle Vernon. Oh, he'd been smacked around a few times, and certainly learned to stay out of arms reach, but _not_ like that. Of course, he'd never tried to kill Uncle Vernon before either.

Reaching up to touch his face, he gently probed the damage. It felt puffy and there was a lot of dried blood. In fact, he was lying in blood, he realized, as he caught sight of the sticky puddle by his arm. Sitting up, he groaned as the fresh bruises on his side protested. Looking down at himself, he stared, green eyes wide in shock. He was practically covered in blood, his ruined T-shirt was stiff with it on one side. Where did it all come from? He didn't remember everything that had happened clearly, but he was pretty sure the blood wasn't Uncle Vernon's. Harry finally caught sight of the criss-cross of welts on his left wrist. Holding his arm up close to his face so he could see it clearly, he slowly turned his wrist as he tracked the red line down to his palm...that hadn't been there yesterday afternoon.

Harry peeled the wreckage of his glasses off his face, idly wondering if Hermione's occulo reparo spell would be up to the task. Everything was blurred, but he recognized his wand lying a few feet away on the floor. On the floor, when it should it have been safe under the floorboard. Automatically looking to his favorite hiding spot, he saw the floorboard set aside, leaving his prized magical possessions exposed. Suddenly angry, Harry stood up and almost fell flat on his face as dizziness assaulted him. Catching himself on the edge of the dresser, he held still as possible. A few moments later he slowly straightened as the stars stopped spinning. Immediately looking to his bed, he didn't see what he was looking for – _Snape_. Where had the bastard gone? He had no right! That spot was Harry's, and it was _private_ - what if his Aunt or Uncle had come in here while he was asleep? Not to mention the mere _thought_ of the greasy git going through the photo album of his parents was enough to make Harry's blood boil.

He reached down, careful not to move too fast this time, and picked up his wand. Sticking it back in his pocket, he walked over to his hiding spot and carefully replaced the floorboard, surprised that it looked like nothing other than his wand had been disturbed. His invisibility cloak was still carefully wrapped around his books and photo album. Confused, Harry looked around again for Snape, this time spotting the potions professor wedged between the bed and the wall. Snape's head lolled forward resting against his shoulder, face obscured by a curtain of black hair and his arms were wrapped around his knees. But what most caught Harry's attention was the blood on the tips of Snape's limp fingers. Harry's blood.

Realization hit Harry like a bludger to the stomach. Vernon had thrashed him. Badly thrashed him…he shouldn't be walking around now. But the blood on Snape, and finding his wand lying on the floor when he _knew_ he had left it safe, and hidden. Snape…_Snape_ had healed him. Snape, who could barely walk straight that afternoon and who looked at the moment like he really needed a healer of his own. Harry stared at the remnants of the cuts on his palm and wrist, the sound of shattering glass replaying in his mind. He looked down at his chest, now distinctly remembering the sickening crunch and accompanying flash of pain as his Uncle's fist had buried itself in his ribs. Just stiff and bruised now, not broken. He looked back at Snape, unbelieving. Snape _hated _him. And he hated Snape, especially after what he had done to Sirius. But looking at Snape right now, he felt…he didn't know what he felt. Gratitude? Anger? Embarrassment that Snape knew what his Uncle had done? Fear that Snape would find a way to torment him with the knowledge? But before Harry could even begin to sort it out, he heard someone inserting keys into the locks on his door.

Hastily, Harry jerked the sleeping bag off the bed and tossed it over Snape. Turning, he watched as the door slowly opened, but no one came through, at least not right away. Harry had taken two steps toward it when his Aunt finally stepped through, pressing it shut behind her, though she left one hand still clutching the door handle like a lifeline. Glancing briefly at Harry standing there, she quickly looked away as she began to speak.

"Harry…I…are you….last night, Vernon- Vernon, he just got carried away…." Petunia's eyes finally settled on him, standing there, "Well…it looks like you're up and about…get yourself cleaned up and then I want you to come help me in the attic. There's some stuff I want to get rid of that I'd like you to carry out to the rubbish bin." And before Harry could even begin a response, Aunt Petunia spun and slipped out the door.

He just stared after her. _Uncle Vernon had almost killed him, and now she wanted him to help carry stuff from the attic to the rubbish bin!_ Stalking across the room, Harry grabbed a clean change of clothes and headed across the hall.

Fifteen minutes later he stared at the blurry image of himself in the bathroom mirror, the blood washed away, leaving only a few scabs and vast array of puffy bruises on his face to go with the colorful collection around his ribcage. Pulling on a clean shirt, he turned and headed down the hall to climb the ladder into the attic, where he could see a fuzzy form that must be his Aunt moving boxes around. She had already pushed a stack of dust covered boxes to the top of the stair, and now waved Harry towards them.

"Start with those, just take them out to the rubbish bin out front. And...and you might want to take a look through them….I don't know why I bothered keeping some of this stuff so long, but, but if you want any of it…well…just make sure I never have to see it again." Aunt Petunia said haltingly, leaving Harry confused, and worried that the world might just be coming to an end. The only thing Aunt Petunia ever offered him was a long list of chores or an armful of Dudley's castoffs.

"Umm, okay Aunt Petunia" Harry replied, and picked up the top two boxes and headed down, half angry that she expected him to be carrying boxes when he felt dizzy just climbing the stairs and half glad that he could forget about everything else for a while and just focus on not tripping.

…

Several hours later Harry lay flat on top his bed, staring at a yellowed scrap of notebook paper clutched loosely in his hand. He had slid his bed a few feet toward the center of the room, both to get away from Snape and to give the professor a bit more room. The potions master was still out cold, though at some point he must have woken up enough to shift to the more comfortable position of lying on his side, wrapped once again in the sleeping bag.

_December 18, 1971_

_L,_

_How are you doing? I'm fine. Tried the new mixture yesterday. You were right about the mulberries, it worked a lot better this time. A few drops in the dinner tea and father was spilling his guts and talking to St. Nick for the next three hours. Even Mum laughed a bit. You should try it on Tuney, next time your parents stick you with her for the night. _

_-HBP_

_p.s. I can be there tomorrow night, don't forget the leaves._

Harry read the letter clutched in his hand again, a smile playing on his face as let his imagination loose with the idea of his mum slipping his Aunt Petunia some version of a babbling beverage.

The boxes his Aunt had made him carry out had contained mostly old clothes, worthless knick-knacks, and the long outgrown toys Dudley had had as a baby. Except for one, which had contained an odd assortment of debris that Harry had nearly tossed away with the rest, before he had seen the letter. It had been sticking out from between the pages of a half burnt muggle book, one of several tossed carelessly in with a small locked chest and several tangled and tarnished necklaces, all of which still remained in the box, now sitting next to Harry's bed.

He read the letter one last time, then carefully re-folded it and placed it in the hiding spot under the floorboards along with the rest of what seemed to be some of his Mum's old things. He couldn't believe Aunt Petunia had kept these things from him for so long. He wanted to both strangle her for leaving them neglected to collect dust and to hug her for finally giving them to him. It wasn't much really, just a letter written by someone who seemed to have been friends with his Mum, some old muggle books that she must have liked, and some jewelry and trinkets. And the small chest, made of a dark wood and intricately carved with flowers and bearing her name carved across the top, it looked like the type of thing a normal muggle girl would set atop her dresser. He very much wanted to know what was in it, but it had a delicate looking lock on it, and the thought of breaking open something that had been precious to his mother stalled him. He'd have to wait until he could unlock it magically. Sighing, Harry sat down at his desk to work on some letters of his own.

By early evening Harry was just about finished with letters to Dumbledore, Hermione, and Ron when his Aunt stuck her head through the door.

"Your uncle, Dudley and I are just about ready to leave to meet Marge at the restaurant for dinner. There's some leftovers in the fridge you can have, just make sure you clean up after yourself and get back in here before we come home. I don't want your uncle to have a heart attack if he sees you."

Harry nodded, and finished up his letters. Hopefully, Hedwig would be back tonight or tomorrow, and he wanted to make sure there was no delay in getting Snape out of here. The potions master hadn't made a sound all afternoon and Harry was finally beginning to think that maybe he should be worried. Well, maybe not worried, just concerned. But only a little bit. A very little bit.

Harry walked around to take another look at Snape. He crouched down and, taking his life in his hands, he gave the sleeping bag a very gentle tug. Snape was still out cold, breathing steadily, and thankfully unaware of Harry watching him. He looked sick, Harry thought. Paler than was usual even for him, with dark circles under his eyes and a slight sheen of sweat coating his forehead. If he didn't wake up in the next hour, Harry resolved to try to wake him, if only to see if he wanted something to eat. He probably needed it, and Harry supposed he owed Snape at least that for patching him up last night. But first he'd go down and see exactly what he could come up with from Aunt Petunia's promise of leftovers.

Twenty minutes later Harry carefully balanced two plates of food and two glasses of water as he headed up the stairs. He hadn't even gotten completely through the door when the assault started. Snape had finally woken up and made his way to Harry's desk, where he now sat with Harry's letters in hand. He looked just as bad as before, except now the little vein in his forehead was throbbing, and the letter in his hand was shaking ever so slightly.

"Are you trying to get me killed? Trying to blow my cover? Didn't get enough when I came here? Think maybe a bit more crucio would be-"

"Those are private! You have no right!"

"Nothing is private from the Dark Lord!"

"Really? So then how come he doesn't know you are a spy! Maybe because you're not. Maybe you're really loyal to him after all? Loyal to the _Dark lord_!" Harry slammed the plates and glasses down atop his chest-of-drawers, little bits of food flying everywhere, as he turned and advanced on Snape, fury overriding reason. His previous _almost_-concern for his professor forgotten, his blood pulsed like the throb of Dudley's music as he saw that bastard holding his letters to Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore in his pale, greasy hands.

Harry snatched at the letters but Snape jerked them away and grabbed Harry instead, black eyes burning with anger. Harry flinched back involuntarily, his shirt twisting in Snape's shaky grip. Something shifted in Snape's expression at that and he suddenly shoved Harry back and let go with a snarl.

"Foolish. Child. Your mother died for you, and you, you scorn that every chance you get! How many more people have to die for you before you finally figure out that this isn't a game?" Snape hissed, then looked back to one of Harry's letters and started reading, his voice dripping with barely suppressed anger.

"_Dear Ron_, You'll never believe who showed up at my door last Sunday – _Snape_. Bleeding all over the Dursley's new floor too. I had to drag him up and hide him before they got home. My uncle would go completely mental if he found out. And then, Bellatrix came later that night and tried to lure me outside of the wards. I think she was looking for Snape too, but I don't think she could cross the wards. Just like the greasy git to pick the safest place to run to, and now I'm stuck with him- " Snape looked up, his cold black eyes drilling into Harry. "Need I go on?"

Harry met Snape's gaze, then quickly looked away. "Hedwig would have taken that straight to Ron, she's not a post owl…"

"Ah, I see, so _you_ decided to entrust _my _life and the order's best source of information on the Dark Lord to an owl and another adolescent wizard. _Did you learn nothing last year?_ _This is not a game_! Not some exciting adventure starring Harry Potter as the hero, with a guaranteed happily-ever-after ending! This is real! People are dying! The Dark Lord and his followers are ruthless and powerful, and you know they might be watching this house! And any owls coming or going! Not to mention the danger you'd be putting your _friend_ Ron Weasley in by telling him all this- what _exactly_ do think would happen to him if a Death Eater got the slightest hint he knew something like this? You think Death Eaters only lurk in shadows? Think again, Potter, they are everywhere!"

Harry paled under Snape's tirade, the image of Ron being tortured at the end of Voldemort's wand not something he ever wanted to see. Snape was right, he hadn't thought things through-_again_. How could an idiot like him ever be the chosen one? He'd dragged all his friends into very real danger only a few weeks ago, blindly thinking they were ready to take on powerful wizards two and three times their age just because they'd shot some spells around in an after-school club. And if he'd been able to master occlumency they'd never have needed to follow him into that danger. And Sirius would still be alive.

"You're right," Harry whispered, all the anger of a moment before utterly gone, washed away on a tide of fresh grief. "I – I'm sorry. I didn't think. . ." Harry looked away, at the door, at his window, anywhere but at Snape. He could feel his eyes starting to burn. He might have just gotten Ron killed too, as if his Godfather wasn't enough. He was a danger to everyone around him. Hah, chosen one, what a bloody joke that was. Wiping the back of his hand across his eyes, Harry finally turned back to face Snape.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to get you killed. . . I don't want anyone else to die because of me. I'm not worth it, not worth Sirius. Or Cedric. Or my Mum and my- "

"Shut up, Potter," Snape said suddenly, cutting Harry off. "Save your self-pity for someone who will coddle you."

Realizing again just who he was talking to, Harry abruptly closed his mouth. Moving to sit on the edge of his bed, he wanted to look anywhere but at Snape. He was only trying to apologize, why did the man have to be such a git? Why couldn't it be Sirius here with him. Or Remus, or Hagrid, or even McGonagal – anyone, anyone but Snape.

"Is that food over there edible or do you think your Aunt might have poisoned it?" Snape asked evenly, the question and complete change in subject jerking Harry back to the present like a drenching in cold water. He finally met Snape's eyes, but he couldn't tell if the man was serious or not, his expression at the moment was carefully blank, all traces of the earlier anger gone.

"I don't think she's clever enough for that, or I'd have been dead a long time ago" Harry returned quietly, as he moved to pick up a plate and glass, carefully setting it down on the desk in front of Snape. A sort of peace offering, he supposed.

Ignoring the food for the moment, Snape extended the letters he'd been holding hostage to Harry, who quickly snatched them. Picking up Harry's pen, Snape quickly scribbled a few lines on a fresh sheet of paper, then handed that to Harry as well.

"Destroy the others. Send this to Dumbledore when your bird shows up."

Harry looked at what Snape had written.

_Professor Dumbledore, _

_Thank you for the gift, it's great. But I was wondering if there's any way you could arrange for it to be taken back to Hogwarts until the start of the school year. It's not adjusting well to being here and it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. And I can't really feed or care for it properly around the muggles. I'm afraid it might even die soon without help. Thanks, and please send help as soon as you can._

_Yours truly,_

_Harry Potter_

"You think you're going to die?" Harry asked, as he watched Snape pick at the leftover food.

"One of us will, if I have to stay in this muggle prison much longer," Snape returned smoothly.

Harry snorted, no arguing with that logic. He went and grabbed the remaining dinner plate, downing the food rapidly, glad his Aunt hadn't been around to tell him he was taking too much.

"Last night," Harry started, then stalled as Snape looked up. "I don't know if Hedwig will be able to get in here to take that letter or any others. My Uncle… Last night, an owl came- not Hedwig. I let it in, but my Uncle caught it and grabbed the letter. The owl escaped, and my Uncle burned the letter without opening it, but it was from Dumbledore. I recognized his handwriting on the outside. I don't know what he would write me about. I don't normally get letters from him…it was probably important" Harry added the last bitterly, not completely sure what prompted him to volunteer any of this to Snape. Maybe he thought Snape would have an idea what might have been in the letter, or what was going on.

"I've no idea what it was about." Almost as if he had heard Harry's unasked question, Snape replied, his eyes narrowed to glittering slits though his voice remained even. For once Harry had the distinct impression that he was not the target of Snape's anger. "The headmaster has been very busy lately…gone days at a time with no notice, travelling and meeting with all sorts. Sometimes the order knows what's he's about, other times he's just gone. I don't know many of the specifics…for obvious reasons."

"Well, maybe when he doesn't get a reply he'll decide to drop by for a visit if he happens to be in the neighborhood." Harry commented with a near even mix of bitterness and hope.

"Maybe." Snape replied, then he looked away before he asked the next question, as if he really didn't want to hear the answer, "What happened after your uncle burned the letter?"

Harry's eyes flashed. No way would he give Snape the pleasure of explaining how his uncle had thrashed him. "What happened to _you_ before you showed up here?" Harry shot back instead.

That caused Snape to look back at him, something like amusement flashing through his eyes before a slight sneer settled on his face. "The muggles are out?"

"Yes. They went to dinner, probably won't be back for at least another half-hour."

Harry watched as Snape pushed himself up and headed stiffly toward the door. A moment later he was out and Harry stuffed his original letters in his pocket and scooped up the plates and glasses to take downstairs. Harry washed the dishes and then took the letters he had written to the fireplace, watching morosely as flames curled around his words. He was still staring at the ashes some time later when he heard the car pull into the drive, breaking him from his reverie and sending him rapidly back up to the safety of his room.

When Harry returned, Snape had taken over the bed again and hidden himself under the sleeping bag. Harry saw the black sweatshirt Snape had been wearing tossed on top of a pile of dirty laundry, reminding him that Snape might appreciate a change of clothes. He'd try to get something tomorrow, the family was supposed to be going to watch Marge at the final day of the dog show. As for now though, he was exhausted, sore and tired of seeing the world as a blur since his glasses got smashed. Dragging his pile of bed-covers across the floor, he shut off the lights, and lay down, sleep claiming him as soon as he pulled the covers over his head.

* * *

September 2011


	9. Thursday, part 1

(9) Thursday, part 1

Snape stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and the set of fresh clothes Potter had dumped on the bed for him earlier. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he wanted to look away but found himself unable. Nearly four days trapped here, and he barely felt much better than when he'd first flung himself into this prison. With his wet black hair hanging in limp strings, the scabbed over gashes across his stomach, and his right side now fully blossomed into a dazzling array of mottled green, yellow, and blue bruises, he looked like he'd been ravaged by a pack of deranged grindylows. If that owl of Potter's didn't show up in the next two days he swore to himself that he'd go sit in the garden until either the Order or the Death Eaters showed up, and just be thankful to be gone from here, regardless of which group got to him first.

Sighing, he held out the latest selection of muggle fashion procured for his use. Another pair of jeans and a long-sleeve flannel, dark blue, and probably about three sizes too big; Snape eyed it with resignation. At least it had buttons so he could get it over his right shoulder with a minimum of painful contortion. A moment later he was dressed and holding a towel with his previous attire wadded inside tucked under his arm, ready to head back to the other half of his prison. Despite the refreshingly hot shower, he still felt cold and drained of energy, and not for the first time in the last few days he wondered if he had a permanent jelly-legs curse inflicted on him. Probably too much blood loss on top of everything else, he thought, frustrated that something like that should be affecting him, especially when he had to have at least four bottles of blood-replenishing potion sitting neatly in his rooms at Hogwarts. In fact they were right next to the skele-grow, pain reducer, bruise-paste, and about ten other potions that he'd really, really like to have right about now. Sighing again, he reflexively dipped his head forward to let his damp hair fall into a protective screen before finally stepping out of the bathroom – and right into the path of Marge Dursley.

Snape froze – Potter had said all the muggles were gone for the afternoon - a show or shopping or something. But there was a very large woman coming out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall, some papers clutched under her arm, and a haughty sneer spreading across her face as she locked eyes with Snape.

"Who the hell are you?" The woman snapped.

Snape's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Potter pounded up the stairs behind him, breathless and still clutching a set of garden shears in his right hand. "He's, He's…the plumber, Aunt Marge. Here to fix the bathroom. It uh, leaks….I thought you were at the dog show?"

Snape looked at Potter incredulously- _the plumber?_

"I left Ripper's breeding records here." Marge Dursley was looking Snape up and down and clearly not liking what she saw. "Vernon didn't say anything about a plumber, Boy."

"He didn't want anyone to know, uh…he's been trying to fix it himself, you see, with the money being short because of the uh, situation with his job and all" Harry added, figuring Marge would jump at the scent of scandal, "but it wasn't working, so he had to get a plumber anyways, but he didn't want Aunt Petunia to know…please, please don't tell them I told you," Harry pleaded, wishing he was as good at fake tears as Dudley. "He didn't want to worry Aunt Petunia and Dudley with the money, and…and you know what he'd do to me if he found out- oh, please don't tell him, Aunt Marge." It sounded terribly pathetic to Harry, and Snape's look of disgust confirmed it, but the gleam in Aunt Marge's eye said she bought it; predictably unable to resist the chance to get Harry under her thumb.

"Hmmph. Well, is it fixed yet?" Marge asked, shifting her attention back to Snape.

Snape's eyes flicked back and forth between Marge and Harry, "Ah…yes, I do believe it is…working correctly now…" he trailed off.

"Good. Show me then, so I can be off. I simply must see Patricia Puffle take home best of breed over that obnoxious mongrel Derric Dulac. She's going to be bearing Ripper's pups after all."

Snape stood stock still, looking at Harry's Aunt like she had just sprouted a second head.

"What? Don't look at me like that. Honestly, service people – you didn't expect that l'd let you go off without a proper demonstration, did you?" she snorted. "Go around charging us for who knows what without the proper supervision, you would. Oh yes, I know how you think. Like the boy here, always looking to get one over on hardworking honest families, you are. Not that I really blame you, of course; it runs in the bloodlines."

Snape's eyes had narrowed to glittering black slits. Harry watched in terrified fascination, the insults for once not bothering him. Aunt Marge had _no_ idea who she was messing with.

"In the bloodlines?" Snape questioned, his voice dropped to the deadly smooth whisper that Harry knew was a sign that Marge would be very wise to shut her mouth and run. But of the many things Aunt Marge was, wise was not one of them.

"Well yes, bloodlines are everything - I see it all the time with the dogs you know, and people aren't so different. Take the boy here for example, despite being taken in and raised here in my brother's house like one of his own, that boy's been nothing but an ungrateful cur. Ready to bite the hand that feeds him, sure as the sky is blue. But what else would you expect given his breeding? A lazy drunken layabout for a father, and the mother, well, Petunia's so ashamed of that one that she won't hardly even acknowledge she ever even had a sister. And I tell you, I wouldn't either, were I her. Why, I don't think the world's ever seen a bigger freakish whore than that Lily Pot-" Marge's tirade suddenly ceased, the sound of her voice gone to silence, even as her lips were still flapping. It took her a moment to realize, then her eyes widened near to popping as she kept trying to talk and got nothing more than a breathy rasp in return.

Without looking away from the panicky woman, Snape turned to thrust his bundle of towels and clothes at Harry and then reached out to grasp Marge by the upper arm. Practically shoving her face in through the bathroom door, he said, "I think you'll find everything's in order with the _plumbing _now. Do let me know if you see anything not _fixed _to your satisfaction." Snape paused for moment, listening, then continued, "Nothing? All good now? Well, even we service people must occasionally get something right every now and then, I suppose. Come now, you should get going, we wouldn't want you to be late to Miss Puffle's triumph, would we?"

Snape pulled Marge back from the bathroom and pointed her toward the stairs, releasing her arm with a light shove. Her wide eyes met his glittering black as she stared at him in confusion and rising panic. Rapidly back-pedaling away, one hand at her throat and the other stretched to the handrail for balance, Marge finally seemed to get a glimmer of understanding. Harry watched, grinning, as she sped through the door in full retreat, the sound of her car pulling out of the drive with a squeal soon following.

The grin faded as the sound of the door to his room slamming shut behind him caused him to flinch. Staring at the door, the garden shears dangled from one hand and the towel wad in the other as he considered. Snape had done something to Marge, and a moment ago, Harry thought it might have been worthy of the Order of Merlin. There was no question that horrible woman deserved what she got, especially the way she had been going on about his Mum. But now, Harry forced himself to think things through. What had Snape done? Or, worse what would happen to Aunt Marge – not that he particularly cared, but if she went to the hospital, or worse, the police, what would happen? And would the ministry find out? And if they did, Harry paled, they would probably blame him. _Snape was going to get him expelled from Hogwarts_. _Again_. _NO!_ _NOT FAIR! _Harry thought, reeling back until he smacked into the wall and slid down to sit against it. The shears clattered to the floor, forgotten. They couldn't blame him, his wand hadn't been used- he tried to think rationally. Whatever Snape had done, it had been wandless magic. No, _accidental_ magic, Harry slowly realized, thinking it through. He didn't think Snape had planned that. Snape was Slytherin, always thinking at least three steps ahead, and always berating Harry for not even managing one step ahead. And no way anything good was going to come from getting rid of Marge like that. Snape had lost control. _Snape._ Even when he'd been livid, Harry had never seen him truly lose control. Lose his temper, yes, but not control of his magic. Otherwise Harry had absolutely no doubt he would have been smashed into a trillion pieces on the day Snape had pulled him from the Pensieve. But the only thing Snape had actually done had been to yell and throw things at him.

Harry let his head rock back against the wall as he stared up at the ceiling. This situation was going downhill faster than a seeker performing the Wronski feint. There _would_ be consequences for what had happened to Aunt Marge. Any minute now, someone from the ministry could show up, or the muggle police, or his uncle…he needed to talk to Snape.

…

_What had he done? _Snape stood, arms folded tightly against his aching chest. He was staring out the window, but his eyes were unfocused and saw nothing beyond the bars. And he was shaking again, very slightly, but it was there. That horrible oversize muggle, going on and on with her ridiculous demands and insults -all he had wanted her to do was just _shut up_. And he had lost control. Something inside him had simply snapped and…she had shut up. _Accidental magic_. He hadn't done accidental magic in a long time. A very long time…how old had he been? Eight? Eleven? He could still feel the sting of his Mum's hand across his face. Almost expected her to come through the door any second now ready to smack him a good one again for losing control like that. And on that thought, he heard the door open behind him. His stomach practically dropped through the floor before he forced himself to be rational.

"Professor Snape?"

_Potter_. He didn't turn. Let the boy stare at his back -he had _no_ desire to see Potter right now. The way things were at the moment, he might very well end up vanishing Potter just like he had that muggle woman's voice. Or maybe if he pretended Potter wasn't there the boy would just go away.

"Uh, Professor Snape?"

Apparently not. "_What?_" he said, but it came out so much like a hiss, he might as well have been speaking parseltongue.

"I, uh…I was thinking-"

"I find that hard to believe."

"_I was thinking,_ that we may have a problem if the ministry finds out about Aunt Marge, or if she goes to the muggle hospital or police…"

"_Really?"_ Snape spun around, ignoring the sickening flash of pain that accompanied the move, "_You_ were _thinking_ and you've come to the brilliant conclusion that there _might_ be a problem?"

Potter jumped back as Snape advanced on him. Somewhere in the back of Snape's mind a voice was screaming at him to stop, that attacking Potter was _not_ going to help anything, but he had the boy backed up to the door before he finally managed pull himself back, struggling to breathe evenly. Potter was staring at him, green eyes wide, and the boy's hand had disappeared behind his back. Holding his wand, Snape realized. Probably the first sensible thing the boy had done in the last three days. Snape locked eyes with him for a moment before he slowly turned back and stalked to where he had been standing a moment ago, back once again towards Potter and arms wrapped tightly across his chest. The light shakes were worse now, probably detectable even to Potter, Snape thought with disgust, trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke.

"_Try_ to control your rash _Gryffindor_ impulse to do something _right-this-second_ and actually _think_ for a moment, as you claim to be capable of. _If _the ministry discovers what happened, then Dumbledore, or at least the order, won't be far behind." _That might actually be a good thing._ "And _if_ your Aunt goes to a muggle hospital, they probably won't be able to help, or even determine what's wrong-it would depend on exactly why she lost her voice. And, there's also the possibility the effect wasn't permanent." _Unlikely. His accidental magic was usually quite effective. And destructive._ "And _if_ she goes to the muggle authorities, what would she tell them?" _Nothing, she couldn't talk_. "That a strange man looked at her and all of a sudden her voice was gone? That the _plumber_ stole her voice? They'd be taking her to the hospital faster than she could've got there herself. No, Potter, we're stuck here. This…._house_ is still the safest place for you. Whatever comes of this…._situation_, at least here, you're protected from the Dark Lord."

The afternoon sun filtered in through the window and spilled across the room, but it was deceptive; at the moment Snape felt anything but warm and comfortable. Potter had walked around to his side, though he carefully remained just out of grabbing distance, Snape noted as silence settled over them. And, now Potter was staring at him.

"Yeah, though you know what? Aunt Marge ought to go take herself to Voldemort. They bloody well deserve each other, the two of them - going on and on about bloodlines they way they do." Harry said with a bit of a smile.

Snape looked over his shoulder to Potter. The boy was mental, he decided. How could he even think of that obnoxious muggle and the Dark Lord in the same sentence? With a sigh of disgust, he shifted his gaze back to the window. Bars. _What_ was the point of the bars? If the muggles didn't want Potter, why try to keep him locked in? _Muggles_ - he would _never_ understand them.

Ignoring Potter, Snape moved to sit on the edge of the bed, still staring blankly out the window. He'd really gone and mucked things up this time. Not as if things had been going well before, but now-he had no idea. Remaining hidden and waiting for help was probably not going to be an option much longer. Of course, he didn't see any other particularly appealing choices at the moment. And he was _still_ being assaulted by constant little tremors.

Lying back, Snape stared at the ceiling. Behind him, he heard Potter pry up the floorboards and extract something – a book, he realized, as a moment later the sound of pages rustling reached his ears. _Amazing_. A true sign of how bad things had become - Potter resorting to reading a book. What next? Would the Boy-Who-Lived actually try homework too? He almost laughed, so absurd had everything become, but the only sound that escaped was a slight hitch in his breathing. He wanted out of here, wanted _nothing_ so much as escape from this, from everything… the throbbing in his shoulder, muggles, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Dark Lord, Dumbledore…everything. Letting his eyes close, he welcomed the darkness, his only wish that it would be long lasting.

A few minutes later and Snape's breathing eased off into a steady cadence, broken only by the occasional rustling of pages as Potter read.

* * *

September 2011


	10. Thursday, part 2

_Interlude_

Hermione looked up as she heard footsteps echoing through the corridors of the Hogwarts library. Remus Lupin soon appeared around the edge of one of the bookshelves.

"May I join you?" He inquired softly.

"Please." Hermione smiled as Lupin took a seat at her table, raising his eyebrows appreciatively as he eyed the nearly three foot tall stack of books she had collected.

"A bit of light reading, eh?"

"I've been researching things I thought would be good for us to try in the DA. And trying to find something about occlumency, for Harry. And some on wizarding recent history. And-"

"Hermione, when was the last time you saw the sun?"

"Er…"

Lupin sighed, then reached out and pulled off the top book of the nearest stack. "Hmmm…_Occlumency Exposed – THE Guide to the Magic of the Mind_" Lupin glanced up briefly before he opened the book and began to read, "Occlumency, mind-magic, purview of the pureblooded – all its secrets exposed, here for you, gentle reader, courtesy of me. Oramiah Obeldorf, your guide on this journey. Stay by my side as we explore the magic of the mind, the secrets of shielding, the lure of lies. No longer is occlumency only to be passed from father to son, mother to daughter, no - now, it's all here for you, gentle reader, laid out on these pages, should you dare-"

Lupin snorted, eyebrows raised as he stopped reading, "This Oramiah Obeldorf must be related to Gilderoy Lockhart. Where on earth did you find this, Hermione? Not the library, I'd wager."

"Er… owl order from an ad in the Quibbler," As Hermione's cheeks begin to burn she quickly followed with, "There's not exactly a lot written on the subject, or, at least not that I've found yet. A few references here and there, yes, but nothing that really explains _how_ to do occlumency….I thought maybe if I could learn how to do it then maybe I could help Harry with it…."

"Hermione….you should be outside, enjoying the summer, spending time with friends, and family, not here researching obscure magic to battle dark wizards…all of us should…" Lupin sighed again, his shoulders slumping for a few moments, before he gathered himself and said, "Come on, let's go for a walk. The books'll still be here after dinner."

Hermione looked torn, but in the end she stood and followed Lupin out. A few minutes later and they were headed at an easy pace towards the lake, the lingering warmth of the late afternoon sun tempered by a pleasant breeze off the cool water.

Hermione looked over at her companion as they made their way along the water's edge. "Is it true that Dumbledore's not going to let Harry leave the Dursley's early now? Ron flooed me last night."

"It's true. Snape's still missing, and he knew about that plan, so Dumbledore thought it safest that Harry stay with the Dursley's – at least for a little bit longer, anyways. In fact, there was some talk of the Weasley's coming here for a few weeks, just in case. Dumbledore did say he still had something planned with Harry for Friday though." Lupin looked out over the water as he spoke. He didn't know if he should be telling Hermione everything, but she was as involved as any order member, and who knew, a little more communication not be such a bad thing, especially considering last year.

"Things haven't been going well. A few days ago, we had not a peep from the Death Eaters, but yesterday…they were everywhere. Two muggles murdered in their locked home, a bridge collapsed, and dementors…dementors are roaming the countryside. We were right to send your parents out of the way, Hermione. Very likely it's saved their lives."

Herminoe met Lupin's eyes for a moment before she shifted her gaze out over the water. "I know…but I miss them. And Ron and Harry. Hogwarts just isn't the same with everyone gone."

Lupin sighed. "Well, Dumbledore's invited us to dinner. And, I may be wrong, but I think he's also talked some of the Weasley's into joining us tonight as well. What do you say we head back and see if they're here yet?"

Hermione flashed a quick smile as they started back to the castle, "I can't wait to show Ron the book I found on the history of dark wizards. And Ginny can start with the one on healing magic, I think that's definitely a subject we should get started on. And after that…"

Lupin smiled to himself as he listened to Hermione lay out an absolutely torturous course of study to await her friends, completely sure that they would be as eager as she to pore through the mountain of dusty tomes she had managed to accumulate in just a few short days. Maybe they'd make it out of this war after all, he thought as the setting sun behind them illuminated the Hogwarts castle in a blaze of beauty fit for a fairy tale.

* * *

_(10) Thursday, part 2 _

Harry turned the page, scanning – _Drasporia Frassio, Drillio, Dwemr, Dyasso Vindi… _the list went on, complete with notes and illustrations. Entitled _One Thousand and One Curses_ _for Fighting Foes_, the book was something Hermione had given him before they left for the summer, and he hadn't yet had a chance to really look at it. It was quite good, but it would be a _lot_ better in the room of requirement, he thought, wishing for the millionth time that he could be at Hogwarts instead of stuck here. With Snape. Who thankfully seemed to be uninterested in anything except the ceiling, seeing as how he'd been lying there staring at it for the last hour.

Harry snuck a quick glance over the top of the book. Yep. Still staring. Harry was rather glad he wasn't the ceiling. Snape had thankfully been asleep most of the afternoon, but after Harry had finally gone down to get them some dinner, he'd been up. Though aside from dinner, he'd done nothing but lie there on Harry's bed staring at the ceiling. It was creepy, Harry thought. But that wasn't the only thing bothering him. It was almost dark, and still no sign of any Dursleys. Not that he wanted them around exactly, but after this afternoon, every second they didn't return he imagined yet another horrific possibility for their absence. He'd thought of everything from an attack by Voldemort to visions of Marge dying on the operating table in a muggle hospital. Sighing to himself, he tried to put it out of his mind and looked back to the book instead. Maybe he could find something to practice that wouldn't get him arrested for underage magic.

He was just finishing up with the E's and still hadn't run across anything that didn't require a wand when a thought occurred to him. He let his eyes slide over to Snape again. Still lying there. He would probably regret this, but…

"Sir….Professor Snape?" Harry started, waiting to go on until Snape finally blinked and rolled his eyes over to fix on Harry, "I was wondering…if you might know, err, any good spells or magic that, err, I could do without getting caught-err, I mean that wouldn't violate underage magic…"

Snape stared at him for a moment, then looked back to the ceiling. Well, at least the bastard hadn't bitten his head off for trying, Harry thought as he let his eyes drop back to the pages once more. _Elient_, _Exergeo_, _Expelliarmus-_

"Potions." Almost a whisper, Snape paused a moment before continuing, "Occlumency. Wandless magic…"

Harry looked back up, his mouth nearly gaping in surprise. The git had actually answered his question, and was now sitting up, watching him. And of course it figured, potions and occlumency. The two subjects he probably hated the most. But the other…

"Wandless magic…" Harry mused, envisioning himself sending Malfoy's wand spinning with a mere thought. That'd be _wicked_, a slow smile spreading over Harry's face and lighting his eyes. Which rapidly turned into a scowl as Snape interrupted his fantasy.

"Which requires both discipline and emotional control that you lack. Utterly. A boy who can't master himself enough to make even a passing effort at occlumency is hardly going to be effective at controlling wandless magic."

"Perhaps I could master occlumency if I had someone who could actually teach it!" Harry snapped back. And meeting Snape's glare at that, he added "I mean, who taught you? How did you get so good at it, _sir_? Or did someone just legilimize you till you figured it out? _Sir_."

Braced for a stinging response, had he not already been staring at Snape, Harry would surely have missed the subtle widening of eyes and fleeting expression of…_something_, that his last words caused. Words that Harry realized had just unintentionally proved Snape's point about emotional control. And something more too, though he wasn't sure exactly what just yet. He snapped his mouth shut and muttered, "Never mind. I think I'll just go downstairs for a bit. See if there's anything on the muggle news."

And leaving Snape staring at him he snapped shut _One Thousand and One Curses_ _for Fighting Foes _and stalked from his room.

…

Downstairs, Harry flopped down on the couch and flipped on the TV. As the weatherman droned on something about rain, Harry replayed the scene from a moment ago in his head. It was simple, really. Just not what he'd expected at all, given that it was _Snape_. He'd asked a question and Snape had answered. A real answer, not a snide, sneering comment. Well, at least not at first, anyways. And loathe as Harry was to admit it, he could hardly count the remark about lack of control, now that he'd gone and more or less proved it true by snapping back like that. _Arrghhh!_ It made him want to punch something…which feeling brought him right back 'round to the subject of emotional control. How? How did you simply just make yourself not angry? The past year, it seemed like all he ever felt was angry. He'd been _so_ angry all the time. And while he now knew that part of that was probably due to the link with Voldemort, just knowing that wasn't stopping the feeling. And worse, what about two nights ago? His anger had almost given Voldemort a way in.

Harry let his head drop into his hands, rubbing at his scar. Hermione, Ron, Ginny…Sirius- all because he had fallen for Voldemort's trap. Because he hadn't mastered himself and learned occlumency. And he was still vulnerable. Oh, he'd found a way to push Voldemort out of his head, which was no small feat, but the incident with Uncle Vernon proved, if nothing else, that Voldemort was _not_ ignoring or occluding him quite as completely as Dumbledore had thought he would.

Harry groaned, then looked up. It all came back to the prophecy, didn't it? Those hateful words that wrapped around him tighter than the strongest steel chain.

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ..._

_He_ was the chosen one. The boy-who-lived. It _really_ was up to him, it wasn't just a hero-thing or a saving-people thing. He had to win. Had to do everything he could to make sure he 'vanquished the Dark Lord.' Because if he didn't, it would mean Sirius had died for nothing. That he'd wasted the sacrifice his mum and dad had made. That Hermione and Ron and Ginny and everyone else fighting against Voldemort would be wasting their effort, and quite possibly their lives. The prophecy was right – neither he, nor anybody else, was ever going to be free to live their lives until Voldemort was gone. He needed to focus on that like it was the snitch of all snitches. He needed to learn everything he could as fast as he could. Potions, occlumency, and wandless magic – all things he could do now….right now, Harry thought as eyed the remote sitting on top of TV.

Ten minutes later Harry still sat, green eyes fixed and jaw clenched. _Accio remote_, _Accio remote_, _Accio re_-

"Boy." It was nearly a growl, and Harry had been so concentrated on trying to wandlessly summon the remote, that he hadn't noticed Uncle Vernon's arrival. Harry slowly turned and stood to find himself face-to-face with the beady and very, very angry eyes of his uncle. Vernon's face was beet red and the vein at his temple was threatening to explode as he grasped Harry by the shoulders and began to shove him backwards.

"I told you- _warned you_, _NO MORE FUNNY STUFF!_ NO MORE!"

"Uncle Vernon-"

"NOT UNDER MY ROOF! " Vernon had pushed Harry back up against a wall. Harry tried to push him off, but his grip was like a vise with his rage.

"Uncle Vernon, I haven't done any magic! "

"NOT ON ME OR MY FAMILY! _NOT ON MY SISTER!"_ Vernon started to slam Harry back into the wall over and over again, punctuating each point with a vicious shake, his hands creeping closer and closer to Harry's throat as the spittle flew like froth from his lips.

"In the hospital she is, but they can't find anything wrong with her. EXCEPT SHE CAN'T TALK!" Harry struggled, but try as he might, he couldn't break the man's hold. Vernon began tightening his grip around his nephew's throat.

"Fed you, clothed you, took you in when it should have been straight to the orphanage with you! And this is how you repay us? I had to leave Dudley and your Aunt at the hospital because Marge near has a fit if someone isn't with her! _You're_ behind my not getting that promotion at work too, I know it! It was a sure thing, and then, _like magic_, it goes to Tom Bogby? You've cost us our holiday to the beach!" And Harry saw stars creeping in from the edge of his vision as Uncle Vernon slammed him back into the wall yet again, sending a nearby picture of Dudley in his Smelting's uniform crashing to the floor.

"_You_ cost me the Mason sale! _You_ attacked my Sister! My Son! _YOU Freak! Your mother should have died before she ever had you!_ YOU–"

"That is _enough_."

Harry barely heard the smooth voice cut in over the roar sounding in his ears, or the sounds of the scuffle that followed, but a second later the vise was gone from around his throat and he fell to the floor, greedily gulping in great breaths of sweet, precious, air. On hands and knees, Harry looked up to see Snape had snaked his left arm around Uncle Vernon's throat from behind, and was struggling to drag the fat man away from Harry. But Vernon was flailing about, one hand pulling tightly at Snape's hold and the other batting wildly at his face. Harry watched, still breathing heavily, as his uncle finally managed to send them both careening backwards into the coffee table. Vernon's weight smashed into Snape as they went down with a crash, shattering the glass top of the table. Harry just stared in shock, the only thought penetrating his brain was that Aunt Petunia was going to be furious, they had just bought that table to go with the new floor.

Snape's hold went slack as he hit the floor, landing in a pile of glass shards and nearly crushed under the weight of Vernon Dursley. Vernon rolled over with a snarl and drove a great beefy fist into Snape's side, followed by another intended for his face, but Snape jerked away and the blow landed on his shoulder instead. And the sound that tore from Snape's throat as Vernon's fist collided with the barely mended shoulder was absolutely awful. Harry watched numbly, near frozen at the sheer unreality of the scene before his eyes. How many times had Harry sat in class, or detention, wishing all sorts of horrible fates on his hated Potions Professor? But as Snape rocked on the floor in agony not five feet from Harry, those thoughts seemed as though they belonged in some other life, far and away from the brutal reality before him. Slowly, Harry pushed himself to his feet and pulled his wand from his back pocket. Vernon was straddling over Snape now, his hands locked around the Snape's throat, and his massive weight suppressing any struggles.

"_Stop._" Harry called, holding his wand remarkably steady as he aimed it at his Uncle. But Vernon ignored him, fully focused on his new target.

"_Stu-_" Harry started, but snapped his mouth shut mid-spell as a strange thing happened. Vernon, in his effort to throttle Snape, had leaned over him and was now looking right into Snape's eyes. A critical mistake, Harry realized, but Vernon Dursley had no way of knowing that…or of defending himself. Harry watched as his Uncle's face went slack, followed by his choke hold, as Snape's cold black eyes bored into him. Slowly, Vernon started trembling, and his mouth moving, but Harry only heard incoherent mumbles. At least at first. Then those mumbles rapidly escalated into a series of shrieks and wails, with the occasional _no! _or _stop! _recognizable here and there. And as Snape lay pinned to the floor, his eyes locked with Vernon, Harry stood watching, wand still extended and a sick sort of fascination filling him as the wails degenerated into sobs.

"_Please. Please. Please_-"

"Stupefy." Harry spoke it softly, and Uncle Vernon fell to the side as the spell struck him, stunned and silent. Harry exhaled slowly, noting that the front door had just opened to admit Aunt Petunia, whose eyes went wide as her favorite set of tea saucers as she took in the scene.

"_What have you done?" _She shrieked, her expression rapidly transforming from shock to one of bitter fury as she closed on Harry.

"Vernon? _Vernon!_ Are you okay?" She rounded the couch and flew straight to Vernon, kneeling at his side trying to shake him awake, seeming not even to see Snape, who had managed to extricate himself from the massive dead weight of the stunned Uncle Vernon. Snape half stood and stumbled a few steps towards Harry (and away from Vernon) his right arm cradled tightly against his chest and his face a waxy pale grey that made his normal sallow skin look healthy by comparison. He crashed lightly into the wall behind Harry and slid down to sit, black eyes squeezed tightly shut and his breaths a barely controlled quiet panting.

"Mum, it's not in the car, you must have left it at…" Dudley trailed off mid-sentence as he stepped through door and took in the scene before him, eyes bouncing from his mum to his dad to the stranger sitting against the wall before settling warily on Harry, who still held his wand at the ready.

"Who's that? " Dudley questioned, his eyes sliding between Harry and Snape, as he continued, "Your boy_-_ Hey, that's _my_ shirt!" And he had taken two steps forward before coming to a quick stop as Harry waved his wand at him.

"That's close enough, Big D."

"_Don't you threaten my Dudders!_ _You- You Freak!_" Aunt Petunia hissed as she stood and turned on Harry. Advancing on Harry, she finally seemed to notice Snape, who had recovered somewhat and was now staring at Aunt Petunia with an odd expression on his face. "YOU!" She snarled, her face slowly going from its current beet red to a previously unknown shade of purple. "OUT! _Get out of my house_. Both of you!" She shrieked, shaking as she and Snape eyed each other, something passing between them in the mutual looks of loathing that Harry couldn't quite decipher.

"Potter…go get your things." Harry glanced down, but made no move to go until Snape finally turned to look at him. "That was _not _a _suggestion._" Harry's eyebrows shot up as he barely restrained himself from pointing out that Snape was hardly in a position to be giving orders.

Keeping his eyes on his Aunt, Harry lowered his wand and carefully stepped around the wreckage of the table. Reaching the stairs, Harry suddenly turned and came to a decision. After all, he'd already cast one spell tonight, another probably wouldn't make much of a difference whenever they finally got around to expelling or arresting him or whatever.

"Expecto Patronum!"

As the great silvery stag leapt from the tip of Harry's wand, he ignored the startled gasp of his Aunt, suddenly at a loss. He knew a Patronus could be used for messages, but he realized he didn't know exactly how he was supposed to do the message part.

"Just talk to it, Potter. Tell it your message and who it is for." Snape said quietly as the stag wandered over to him. His eyes tracked its movement with a look that alternated between clear distaste as it nosed him and hopeful relief as it turned back to Harry expectantly.

"Err, go to Dumbledore, tell him that he's needed at Number Four Privet Drive, uh, as soon as he can get here or send someone else if he has to…please." And the stag dipped it's head in silent acknowledgement before it wheeled, and trailing a wisp of silver where Dudley's fingers ran through it as he reached out to touch it, the great stag bounded by him and out into the night. The moment it was gone, Harry ran up the stairs and pried up the floor board, throwing his most prized possessions into a pile on his bed. Then, thinking quickly, he darted into Dudley's room and nicked his cousin's gym bag and stuffed in some spare clothes for Snape. Followed by a sizeable wad of allowance money that Dudley had carelessly left out on top of his desk, which Harry opportunistically snatched up before heading back to cram his own things into the bag slung across his shoulder. The last thing he did before heading back downstairs was one last spell, _occulo reparo_, which, amazingly fixed the wreckage of his glasses back to new.

Able to see clearly once again, Harry came down the stairs to find that Snape was standing and had made his way toward the door. Dudley had disappeared entirely, and Aunt Petunia was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes narrowed and filled with a fury Harry had never before seen in her, and she had pulled his trunk and broom out of the cupboard.

"Take your stuff and _get out_." She hissed, her voice so full of venom Harry practically expected to see a forked tongue dart out of her mouth at any moment. "I don't care what's going on or what that doddering old man says, _leave us out of it!_ I should have never, _ever_, taken you in, Harry Potter. You and _your kind_ are _not welcome_ here, _ever again!_ "

Harry paused, meeting his Aunt's burning gaze with an equally cold green glare, "I was never welcome here." Then he squared his shoulders and walked away, looking nowhere but straight ahead and pretending that he couldn't feel either his Aunt's or Snape's eyes following him across the room as he collected the rest of his belongings, opened the door and stepped out.

"Lily would have cried, to see this." It was so soft Harry almost didn't hear it, but his mouth fell open in shock as he looked back over his shoulder at the last minute to see Snape staring at his Aunt, the indignant fury melting from her face at Snape's quiet words, to be replaced by something so desolate it threatened to dissolve the knot of anger that had settled in Harry's stomach just a moment ago. Then Snape broke his gaze away from Petunia and followed Harry out into the night.

* * *

October 2011


	11. Into the Night

(11) Into the night [Thursday night]

Snape stumbled. Gritting his teeth, he ignored yet another sidelong glance from Potter as the two of them made their way down another endless street of muggle residences, each one utterly indistinguishable from the next on this starless night. His shoulder was a constant source of agony, white hot claws needling through him with each step, no matter how still he tried to hold his arm against his chest. Every breath hammered a fresh spike through his side and he could hardly see between the swelling around one eye and his own hair plastered to his face with mix of blood, sweat, and spit from the snarling of that muggle. That horrid fat muggle. _That_ was a muggle that _deserved_ to be the center in a circle of Death Eaters.

Snape's expression twisted with savage pleasure as he recalled the moment that muggle had made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. The Dark Lord wasn't the only one who could use legilimency as a weapon. Let the muggle feel what it was like to be on the receiving end, as each blow landed, as fingers tightened around your throat, choking off air. What it felt it like to be thrashed by someone three times your size. He'd had enough of that in his life that it was no problem to twist a few of that man's memories into a full experience from Potter's point of view. Let the muggle feel what it _really_ was to beat a child.

A cold anger slowly spiraled through his thoughts. It was something he hadn't felt in years. That muggle was supposed to be protecting Potter. Supposed to be spoiling the boy-who-lived and providing for his every want and need. And Petunia. Tuney. Lily's sister. Standing there, telling Potter to get out. She'd betrayed them _all_. . .for _years_. And how long had Dumbledore known? How long had Dumbledore known that Lily's own sister, _Lily's own flesh and blood_, had been allowing- allowing the things he had seen in that muggle's mind. _How long!_ _How long has the manipulative bastard known that woman was betraying the memory of Lily, while he used that very same memory like chains over me!_

Snape stopped abruptly, breath coming in short gasps. The threads of his world were unraveling and re-weaving themselves into a picture he did not want to see. He wanted to howl with rage, wanted to tear Petunia into pieces, wanted to smash the twinkle out of Dumbledore's eyes. Blinking rapidly, he struggled for control, realizing Potter was staring at him, a pathetically concerned expression plastered across his face.

"_I was saying_, I think maybe we should try to call the knight bus, get to the Leaky Cauldron or Grimmauld place for the night…" Potter trailed off, suddenly giving intense study to a crack in the pavement as he added, "Or…maybe…St. Mungo's-"

"Or we could just go back and be throttled by the muggles," Snape said, voice hoarse but still unmistakably sneering. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he mentally shoved the pain and turmoil into a corner and tried to ignore it. He _had_ to concentrate on the situation at hand. Everything else. . . Everything else could wait.

Opening his eyes again he glanced around. Potter was staring at him, standing a few feet away, a duffle slung over his shoulder, one hand dragging his trunk and the other holding his broom. They had reached the end of the street they were on, but the indistinguishable muggle residences stretched in either direction, offering no clue as to what they should do. A light breeze gusted down the street, bringing with it the first few drops of rain.

"Potter," Snape started, then sighed, too exhausted to berate Potter for his typical inability to think through things. How the boy had managed to stay alive so long was one of the great mysteries of the universe. "The knight bus, Grimmauld place -they aren't safe. . .you'd be recognized , and we'd be surrounded by Death Eaters in a moment's notice on the knight bus, if the Dark Lord so wished it. And Grimmauld place is the _Black_ family residence, and in case you forgot, the dog's dead, and the only other people still around with _Black_ in their name also have things like Bellatrix or Malfoy-"

"Fine. What do you think we should do then? _Sir._" Potter's expression had darkened predictably at the mention of the dead dog.

"I . . . we can't stay here. Perhaps it has escaped your notice, being the _chosen one_, but not all of us are famous heroes immune to wizarding law. Underage magic is illegal, as is using magic against muggles. The ministry, the aurors, what do you think they will make of the scene back there? Dumbledore," and Snape couldn't help the hiss that crept into his voice at the name, "may not be the first to come. He may not come at all. And the ministry is...not secure. It is possible that the news of events here could reach the Dark Lord before the Order." Snape said the last quietly, casting a searching glance back in the direction they had come. How long before someone came? Before someone linked a routine violation of underage magic with the name Harry Potter? Or discovered the voiceless muggle woman in the hospital? He shivered, imagining the memos zipping about the ministry, imagining who might be reading them. If Death Eaters showed up now there would be no chance for the two of them. At the moment, even if he still had his wand, he doubted he could put up enough of a fight even just to allow Potter to escape.

Where to go though? Where would Potter be safe? Now that he'd managed to wreck the one safe place that had existed for the boy-who-lived. Hogwarts was the obvious answer, but it was a long way from here. And he couldn't apparate them to the other side of the street right now, much less across the country. The Weasley's were closer, but that would be an obvious choice for anyone looking for Potter, not to mention that they were already a tempting target. And Spinner's End was out of the question – too far, the thought of Potter there made him nauseous, it was known to too many Death Eaters, and of course there was the unavoidable presence of Wormtail.

Maybe they should split up. It wasn't as though his presence made Potter any safer, more likely the opposite. Potter had his broom, there was a chance he could make it to Hogwarts, after all, the boy'd pulled off similar idiotic stunts before.

"Potter," Snape began slowly as Potter's green eyes locked with his. "Listen carefully – do you know reducio? Good. I want you to shrink your trunk and put it in your shoulder bag. Then you are going to take out your invisibility cloak and put it on. And then you are going to get on your broom and fly to Hogwarts. _Straight_ to Hogwarts. Not to your friends or to wherever else you might think looks interesting. After you shrink your trunk, don't cast any more spells until you get to Hogwarts, unless you have no other choice. And I mean _NO_ other choice – the ministry can track you when you use magic, understand?"

Potter just stared at him, a mix of expressions crossing his face that Snape didn't have the energy to decipher. "No. Sir. I mean, I understand, but I won't do it."

"It's not up for discussion, Potter-" Snape hissed, but Potter cut him off.

"I'm not going to leave you here."

"What?" Snape blinked, he couldn't have heard that right.

"I'm not going to just leave you here for the death eaters, or aurors, or whatever." Potter said, looking away. "Not after…well…everything." Potter shrugged, briefly glancing back to meet Snape's disbelieving eyes before taking out his wand and aiming it at his trunk. "Reducio!" The trunk shrank to the size of a lunch box and Potter shoved it into the duffle.

"Don't be an idiot, Potter! Bellatrix or Greyback could be here any minute! You need to go. Now!"

"Fine. But you're coming too." Potter said stubbornly, tossing the duffle over his shoulder and getting on his broom. Seeing Snape's incredulous expression, he added, "It'll work. It's a Firebolt – it can handle us both."

"You're barking. There's no way I-" but a sudden lull in the gusty breeze let a distant wail carry through the night. It could have been the siren of a muggle policeman conducting a routine stop. Or it could have been the triumphant howl of a werewolf picking up the scent of blood. Either way, Snape cut off his reply at the sound, indecision clear on his face. As the breeze picked up again and the rain started to come down in earnest, drowning out any further sounds and rapidly soaking through the muggle clothes they both wore, Snape made up his mind.

Scowling as he stepped forward, Snape decided that _he_ must be the one who was barking mad to double up on a broom with Harry Potter. No sooner had he managed to get seated than momentum slammed him back as Potter launched them off the ground. For a second that felt like an eternity, Snape thought he was going to fall, before he felt Potter grab him around the middle and mutter a muffled "Sorry". They wobbled for a moment more, Snape choking back a cry of pain, the fingers of his left hand clenching around the broom's handle in a deathgrip, but then Potter got it straightened out and the ground rapidly fell away as the two of them flew into the night.

. . .

The summer rain rapidly turned into an unrelenting barrage of icy cold needles as Harry guided the firebolt over the sprawling muggle neighborhoods. His left arm wrapped around Snape in front of him, Harry maintained an awkward grip on the broom handle from behind as he tried to follow a string of lights marking a muggle highway that led north. The constant wind buffeted them mercilessly, drowning out all sound and magnifying the chill of the rain ten-fold. It wasn't long before Harry could feel Snape shivering, forced as he was into such discomfortingly close contact with the potions master. Something that some part of his mind was still screaming in protest at, the only consolation was that he had no doubt Snape probably hated it even more than he did.

Gradually the lights of the muggle houses became more sporadic as they flew on, the rain slowly transforming to a misty drizzle that was slightly less unpleasant to fly through, but made it much harder to see anything more than about a quidditch pitch away. Harry dropped lower, trying to keep the lights of the muggle vehicles visible. _Fly straight to Hogwarts._ What was Snape thinking? That he had a built in compass that pointed to Hogwarts? How was he supposed to get to Hogwarts? In second year they'd followed the train, and last year, the thestrals had done the cross country navigation. And right now, he had no thestrals around, no trains to follow, and he could barely manage to follow the road that he thought was headed in roughly the direction of Hogwarts. Maybe this was like occlumency – Snape just said do it, and _voila!_, he was supposed to be able to do it. The whole _how_ part, well, that was just a minor detail, not worthy of explanation.

Harry scowled, some mutinous part of his mind suggesting that he just give a little roll and let go. Tell Snape he should simply float down, it was simple really, didn't everyone know how? But that petulant desire was quickly shoved aside by the image of Snape struggling to pull Uncle Vernon off him, of the muted thump Vernon's fists made with each blow, as if each one was hammer irrevocably shattering five years worth of Harry's carefully held convictions regarding the potions master. Like the absolute truth that Snape was evil. That he was a death eater loyal to Voldemort. That Dumbledore was mistaken to trust him. That Snape hated him. Harry wasn't sure of anything anymore, except that there was no way someone loyal to Voldemort would have done the things for him that Snape had done in the last five days. Snape. . .might be a right nasty git, but they were on the same side in this war.

A fresh barrage of needling rain and the realization that Snape had suddenly gotten a lot heavier brought Harry sharply back to the situation at hand. Slumped forward as if asleep, he would have fallen off if not for Harry's arm already wrapped around him. Which was protesting the added strain with a particularly nasty cramp that threatened disaster if Harry let go even for a moment to stretch it out.

_They weren't going to make it._

Awareness hit Harry like a bludger to the stomach. He was exhausted and freezing cold. Snape was unconscious. And they were barely beyond the sprawling muggle towns that surrounded London, probably not even a quarter of the way to Hogwarts, assuming that they were actually headed straight towards it. Harry shut his eyes for a brief second, struggling against a tide of despair. They might not be making it to Hogwarts like this, but that didn't mean the fight was over. Sirius had fought to the end. His parents had died fighting for him. Snape. . . _Snape_ was in who knew what kind of shape right now because he had fought for Harry. A knot of resolve settled in Harry's chest. He could _at least_ figure out something to get them out of the rain for the night.

Harry peered into the gloom. The muggle road he was following was one of the larger ones, and he fervently hoped that the glow ahead was not just his wishful thinking. They needed a place to stop, to get warm and dry. Ahead, the veil of misty rain swirled, illuminated by the glow of distant streetlamps. Harry dropped lower, the stark outlines of an abandoned factory looming over a smattering of dimly lit buildings as he approached. But the only one that mattered to Harry was the one that said "King's Country Inn – vacancy."

Belatedly remembering to look for muggles, Harry was relieved to find the street empty as he set them down. With his feet firmly on the ground Harry carefully shifted Snape off the firebolt, setting him down as gently as he could manage, which was something of a controlled fall. At least the muffled groan as the jostling brought him around meant he was still alive, Harry supposed, grimacing as he was finally able to stretch the cramps out of his stiff arms.

Despite the fact that a minute ago Harry had been the only thing between Snape and a long fall, Snape slowly pulled himself from a sprawl to sit, a dazed look in his black eyes. It was a strange expression that Harry was most certainly not accustomed to see on the Potions master. Watching the odd look slowly fade as Snape glanced around, Harry held out his arm. A more familiar glare met the gesture, but Snape took the proffered arm without comment, wincing as Harry helped him to a shaky stand.

Not counting Uncle Vernon's antics the summer he'd turned eleven, Harry had never stayed at a muggle inn before. He wasn't sure the muggle notes swiped from Dudley's room would be enough, but then again, this didn't exactly look like a high class establishment Harry thought glancing around as the entered the office. An ancient television and several faded travel brochures sat on a small table next to a threadbare couch covered in a fuzzy brown upholstery that probably would have made a better carpet. The scent of stale smoke and sour wine lingered in the still air. And the fat muggle who sat behind the manager's desk hardly raised an eyebrow, despite the sight Harry knew they must have made, both dripping rain and Snape shaking like a leaf with arms crossed in a futile effort to stay warm.

But the muggle, muttering around the cigarette dangling from his lips and dislodging several little bits of food caught in his beard, merely gave them a bored glance as he grunted, "Hourly or nightly?"

"Uh…"

"Nightly. And separate beds." Snape sneered hoarsely, his words causing Harry's cheeks to burn as understanding of what the muggle thought they were here for clicked into place.

"And. . .look at me."

The fat muggle snorted, about to respond with a no-doubt rude remark, but the second he looked up, Snape locked eyes with him.

"You will tell no one you saw us – we were never here. And we're not to be disturbed. Give me the room key."

The cigarette dropped from the muggle's slack lips, as he nodded and obeyed. Harry stared, not sure if he was witnessing occlumency or some version of imperio, but absolutely sure that he wanted to learn it, whatever it was. Snape was gripping the counter tightly, the effort clearly taking a toll.

Belatedley, Harry fished out the wad of crumpled notes he'd nicked from Dudley and put it on the counter, not sure how much it would be for the night. Snape's eyes flicked to him, then he picked out two of the bills and smoothed them, pushing the rest back toward Harry as the manager returned with a key.

Snape slid the bills forward, "We're paid up for the night. Give me the key."

The manager still seemed to be in a daze as he handed over the key, mumbling "Yer 'n room one-oh-nine, jus' out the door 'an to the right. Nobody near ya, yeh won't be disturbed. Check out's at-"

"We willl check out when we're ready." Snape cut in smoothly, as the muggle nodded absently. Then Snape turned and headed out the door, Harry quickly following.

...

Snape may have been able to pull himself together enough to take care of the muggle at the desk, but it was obvious to Harry that he was fading fast, as they were barely into the room before Snape stumbled and would have fallen flat on his face had Harry not quickly caught him, the broom and duffle dropping to the floor with a clatter. Snape tried to pull back, but Harry's fingers were wrapped tightly in his shirt, and Harry could feel him shivering through the wet cloth, as he half supported and half dragged the Slytherin toward the room's tiny shower.

"What. . ."

Ignoring Snape's confused protest, Harry eased the potions master into the small stall, stepping back as he turned the handle to hot. "You're freezing cold. And you're shaking so bad you can't stand. Sir."

Snape either understood or was too far gone to care. There were no further protests as eyes half shut, he slumped against the shower wall, sliding to a seat as the hot water began to rain down.

Harry watched, transfixed, as a rivulet of water traced a path around a cut on Snape's cheekbone and ran down to drip off his chin. How could he ever explain to Ron or Hermione the sight before him? Or any of it? On a calendar it may have only been a few weeks since he had last see them, but it felt like a lifetime. Looking down at the barely healed lines wrapped around his own wrist, then back at Snape, pale and still as the warm water ran over him, Harry shivered. His world had turned upside down, and he didn't know if it could ever be righted again. . .or if he even wanted it to. And suddenly, he longed to see Sirius, to talk to him, the feeling so strong that it hurt, a deep aching pain that resonated in every corner of his being. _Sirius_. Why did he have to die? Why? Why did Sirius have to go and Snape have to be here? _Why?_

* * *

October 2011


	12. Signs

(12) – _Signs_

Red lights flashed an odd staccato pattern, in eerie contrast to the misty rain that otherwise blurred the lines of Number Four Privet Drive with the night. More than one muggle set of eyes peered out from behind curtains of the neighboring houses, but none were paying a bit of attention to what was happening across the street. Had they been, they would have noticed the same spot that was empty pavement in one flash was suddenly occupied by the forms of two oddly dressed men in the next. And had they been able to look closely, they would have undoubtedly been disturbed by the fact that both men remained perfectly dry, despite the increasing tempo of raindrops pattering against rooftops.

Albus Dumbledore, to all outward appearances calm as the water in a forest pool, stood observing the intensive muggle activity just a short distance away. Next to him, Remus Lupin glanced around warily, wand in hand, but held unobtrusively by his side. Across the street, in front of Number Four, Privet Drive, a handful uniformed muggles milled about, alternating between talking into strange little boxes and trying to keep dry their paper pads while jotting down notes. Two other muggles were struggling to load another, very large muggle, into the back of an ambulance. The very large muggle, strapped to a strange wheeled contraption, was wheezing and moaning something repetitive that neither of the two watching wizards could clearly make out. Trailing this was a thin woman and a somewhat smaller and younger version of the muggle on the cart. The woman was alternating between hugging the boy and wringing her hands together as she hovered,hen-like, over the fat muggle on the cart.

Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley, Lupin mentally put the names to the muggles, watching as one of the uniformed muggles said something to Petunia and then guided the boy to a seat in one of the police cars. So where did that leave Harry? The Stag Patronus that had bounded into the great hall had shocked them all. Just as Ron Weasley had maneuvered his knight into a position to almost guarantee Dumbledore's King a grisly death, the great silvery form had burst through and progressed directly to the headmaster. Lupin almost hadn't believed it at first, thinking it terribly convenient timing on Dumbledore's behalf, but when it had been followed not two minutes later by another silvery flash from Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, all hell had broke loose.

Potter's Patronus, simply saying please come, and then Bones's, saying that three, no, wait, now four separate incidents of underage magic had just occurred at Number Four Privet Drive and that she wouldn't be able to keep that quiet for long, even for Dumbledore. It was only luck that she had been late at the office and caught the reports before they went to straight to Scrimgeour. She had made sure Dumbledore would know first, and she would do what she could to delay any response, but news like that wouldn't keep.

Arthur had immediately headed to the ministry to find out what he could and keep Dumbledore informed of any impending problems that might come from that direction. Molly and Hagrid remained at Hogwarts to watch over Ron, Ginny, and Hermione (and prevent any additional ill-advised teenage rescue missions). Which left Dumbledore and Lupin to come here.

"The wards have fallen." Dumbledore spoke at last, quietly slipping his hand inside his robe and glancing over to meet Lupin's eyes. A sick hollow feeling punched a hole through Lupin's gut. _They were too late._

"What," Lupin paused, almost afraid to ask, "would cause the wards to fall?"

Dumbledore's eyes were not twinkling as he quietly replied, "The death of Harry Potter. Or," and he sent a chilling look towards Petunia Dursley, who was being helped into the muggle ambulance to accompany her husband. "if Harry can no longer call this home."

Dumbledore suddenly strode across the street, the movement drawing the attention of the muggle who was helping Petunia.

"Sir? Can I-" But Dumbledore swept past the ambulance crewman as if he wasn't there and stepped lightly into the ambulance.

"Ahhh, my dear Petunia, it's so good to see you again, though I daresay the weather could be better. And it does seem as though there's been a spot of trouble, doesn't it? Though I'm sure it's nothing we can't work through, of course." Not letting go of Vernon's limp hand beside her, Petunia turned to look at Dumbledore, blinking dazedly, as if she hadn't understood a word he said.

"What?"

"Where is Harry Potter?" All pretense gone, Dumbledore's next words cut through the damp night air like a knife.

"Potter? _Potter_." Petunia repeated, her expression flicking grotesquely from one of dazed shock to venomous hatred before settling on frantic worry as Vernon made a particularly loud moaning sound at the name. Petunia squeezed his hand . "Oh dear, it's okay, it's okay. I sent him away. He's gone. He won't ever come back to bother us again, I promise. It's okay. Vernon?" As Vernon's moans died down to a few breathy mumbles Petunia suddenly turned and snarled at Dumbledore, "This is your fault! All of you! Your kind! Freaks! With your wars and your weird ways – look! Look at what you've done! Turned my sister's boy into a monstrous freak, you did! After all we did for him, now our house is torn apart, our family attacked! First Marge, and now Vernon! And you want to know _where Harry Potter_ is? He is gone! I told him to GET OUT! Dudley and I were just in from the hospital when I walked through our door to see _Harry Potter_ magic-ing Vernon with his wand! _Harry Potter_ tried to murder my Vernon!"

Taken aback by the screeching intensity of Petunia Dursley's sudden rage, Dumbledore hardly noticed the ambulance crewman as he stepped between them. "Sir, please, I must ask you to leave," he said shooting Dumbledore an angry look as he pressed something into Petunia's hand. "Ma'am, please take these, for your nerves."

Petunia rapidly popped the pills in her mouth, swallowing, the purple flush gradually receding from her cheeks. She sent a look of pure venom at Dumbledore as he slowly backed out of the ambulance.

"You tell Snape, when you see him, tell him whether Lily would have wanted to see her son using _magic_ to hurt his family. You ask him if she would have cried to see _that_." Her voice shook softly as she said the last, leaving a stunned Dumbledore to wonder whether he'd really heard it. But before he could turn back to question her further, the muggle crewman shut the door with a thump, and the wail of the siren blasted as the ambulance pulled away.

"Did I hear that right, Albus?" Lupin asked, watching the ambulance, and the remaining muggle emergency vehicles with it, rapidly disappear into the gloom. "_Harry_ tried to kill his uncle? And she wants you to deliver a message to _Snape_?"

"Yes. . . or at least that is what she said." Dumbledore abruptly drew his wand and gave it a light flick, sending a bit of silver wisp away at impossible speed. "We need Arthur to find out exactly what spells caused the underage magic report." And turning to study the otherwise exceptionally ordinary Number Four, Privet Drive, he continued, "And see if there's anything more here to be found about what happened, and where Harry might be."

Entering the darkened muggle house, Dumbledore flicked a light from his wand to hover over the scene before them. While they had been cozily tucked away in the warm safety of Hogwarts, disaster had clearly struck Harry. Sick with guilt, Lupin took in the wreckage. Glass was everywhere. It covered the floor where the ironwork of what had once been part of a table now looked more like barren branches peeking through a fresh dusting of winter snow. It littered the sideboards where no small number of wall hangings had fallen and shattered. And there was not just glass, but. . .blood, too. Lupin shuddered as the wolf in him stirred at the faint scent. Dark smears adorned the walls in no less than three locations and a particularly large smear snaked across the floor where it looked like someone or something had been dragged away from the main pile of glass.

"_Merlin's beard…_" Horror laced Lupin's voice. Dumbledore said nothing, but his fingers were clenched to whiteness around his wand and the smallest of trembles disturbed the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. As if he couldn't bear to look at the mess before him any longer, the headmaster quickly turned and made his way up the stairs, waving the tip of his wand slightly to send the hovering light just ahead. Pausing, Dumbledore surveyed the short hall, sighing sadly as his fingers traced lightly down the line of locks on one particular door.

The door yielded to a light push, opening to reveal a small room, sparsely furnished and quite messy. A chest of drawers stood with several of the drawers pulled out, a muggle shirt left hanging over the edge of one, as though someone had packed in a rush. A garish orange sleeping bag was tossed back and half falling off the bed where someone hadn't bothered to make the bed up for the day, but perversely, what looked like the actual bedcovers were in a wad on the floor across the room. A pile of rubbish and dirty clothes overflowed one corner, lending a sickly sour odor to the room.

Lupin carefully stepped around Dumbledore, crossing to examine the desk, eyes drawn to what looked like a letter next to Hedwig's empty cage. He read it twice, brows creasing – something was off about it, but he couldn't quite figure what. It seemed to be a simple letter to Dumbledore about some new pet. Turning, he opened his mouth to ask Albus what he thought of it, but stopped short as comprehension clicked into place when he saw what the headmaster was pulling from the rubbish heap. The handwriting- it wasn't Harry's. Just like the mangled black cloth that Albus was curiously holding up in no way belonged to Harry either.

Lupin struggled for breath, feeling as if all air had just been sucked from his chest. _Snape_. The handwriting, that coat, both belonged to Snape. _What had happened here? _A split second later, Lupin saw the same realization dawn on Dumbledore as the headmaster slowly fingered one of the black buttons on the shredded coat.

"Albus? Remus? Are you here?" A voice called out from below, causing both wizards upstairs to turn toward the door as the speaker continued, apparently encountering the wreckage on the ground floor. "Good Lord…"

"Arthur? Is that you?" Dumbledore spoke, his voice sounding strained to Lupin's ears.

"Yes, it's me. Tonks was coming on duty, so she's covering the ministry for the moment." A moment later Arthur Weasley poked his head in the room. "Good Lord, Albus, what happened down there? It looks like a tornado hit indoors. Oh, I have the reports you asked for here. Amelia was holding them, but they're meant for the minister." He handed several struggling memos to Dumbledore, careful not to let go of them until Dumbledore gently set down the shirt and got a good grip on the memos.

As he opened them one by one the enchantment left them, and they fluttered peacefully to the floor, seemingly content to be read, even if it hadn't been by the intended eyes. "Stupefy. Patronus Charm. Occulo Reparo. All here, at Number Four Privet Drive. Reducio, at the corner of Privet and Magnolia." Dumbledore's forehead wrinkled as he and Lupin exchanged glances.

"Nothing on that list would cause the disaster below. Or kill anyone." Lupin voiced their thoughts as his eyes slid to settle on the shirt Dumbledore had set carefully atop the chest of drawers.

"Kill someone?" Arthur repeated.

"When we arrived, Harry's Aunt Petunia was getting into a muggle ambulance with her husband, Harry's Uncle. She said Harry had tried to kill him." Lupin explained, Arthur's expression astonished.

"Let us assume," Dumbledore quietly broke in, "That Petunia is indeed telling the truth. Or at least the truth as she perceives it." Dumbledore added at Lupin's disbelieving look. Reaching over, he picked up Snape's shirt, unconsciously running his fingers over the buttons as he continued thoughtfully. "It is entirely possible that Petunia did see Harry cast a spell at, or least towards his Uncle Vernon. _Stupefy_."

"Why would Harry try to stun his Uncle? After last year's fiasco with the dementors I'd think he would even think twice about defending himself, ridiculous as that is!" Lupin exclaimed.

"Why indeed? That is a very good question. And I quite agree with you Remus. I highly doubt Harry used any spell without very good reason. Perhaps. . ." and Dumbledore paused a moment, as if his next thought was almost too absurd to be worth voicing aloud. "Perhaps, Harry was not defending himself."

"Who else would he be defending?" Arthur asked, not following where Dumbledore was going with this.

Dumbledore looked away as he carefully held the mangled shirt up for Arthur to see. The sleeves looked like they had been cut by a diffindio spell, or more likely, some muggle device, but the middle was a shredded mess of frayed cloth and long dried blood. Arthur looked like he might be sick.

"I think, Arthur," Dumbledore said slowly, speculating, "that on the night the order met at the burrow, that Severus Snape didn't come because he couldn't. Because his wand had been broken and he was here. And I think he was probably injured. Possibly quite severely, if this is anything to judge by." Dumbledore sighed, putting the shirt down again as he took a seat on the edge of the bed and let his eyes rove around the tiny room. "I think Severus has been here, with Harry, since Monday, or possibly even Sunday." Dumbledore stated softly.

Lupin's eyebrows raised in disbelief, the thought of Harry and Snape stuck together here for as long as Dumbledore suggested being stretch for even the wildest imagination. But, the mangled black button up shirt was unmistakably Snape's, and it would certainly explain why there was a sleeping bag on the bed and a pile of bed covers on the floor, with both looking like they'd been slept on recently. Belatedly, Lupin remembered the letter, handing it to Dumbledore. It made a lot more sense now, put into this grim new context.

"I almost forgot. I found this on the desk a minute ago. The handwriting isn't Harry's."

Dumbledore took the letter, quietly reading it aloud.

"_Professor Dumbledore, _

_Thank you for the gift, it's great. But I was wondering if there's any way you could arrange for it to be taken back to Hogwarts until the start of the school year. It's not adjusting well to being here and it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. And I can't really feed or care for it properly around the muggles. I'm afraid it might even die soon without help. Thanks, and please send help as soon as you can. _

_Yours truly, _

_Harry Potter"_

Dumbledore looked up, meeting Lupin's and Arthur's eyes over the rims of his half moon spectacles. Tears traced a silent path down his face as he carefully folded the letter and put it in a hidden pocket in his robes.

"We were keeping Hedwig at the Burrow, in anticipation of Harry's arrival on Saturday." Arthur spoke slowly, with a queasy sort of horror. "They had no way to send word, at least that wouldn't risk Harry's expulsion."

The three of them all looked at each other. The mess downstairs, the letter, the shirt, all painted a very grim picture. And on top of that, four incidences of underage magic reported to the ministry, and Harry Potter nowhere to be found. Not to mention a missing Snape too, who was probably with Harry. And at least one muggle magically attacked, maybe another, Lupin thought, replaying Petunia's tirade in her head.

"We need to do something about. . .this." Lupin said, waving his arm to indicate the room and the mess below. "If the ministry sees even half. . ."

"I will talk to Scrimgeour, if necessary," Dumbledore said, standing. "But you are correct. The ministry does not need to see this." Dumbledore waved his wand, muttering, and everything in the room swirled about, causing Arthur and Lupin to duck reflexively. When he was done the chest of drawers was shut, the bed covers had returned to the bed and the sleeping bag rolled itself up neatly. The rubbish was banished and a quick scourgify removed the lingering odor and several suspicious stains on the floor that none of them cared to discuss. All that remained to incriminate was a pile of bloodstained clothes. Some obviously Snape's, like velvet black robes and the button up shirt, but others could have just as easily been Harry's as something borrowed by Snape. Dumbledore looked at the pile sadly before finally vanishing it, too.

"Well. That's that, I suppose. Shall we put the rest in order?" He asked, not expecting any answer as he left the tiny room. A quick check of the other rooms revealed nothing amiss, and as they headed down to the ground floor, Arthur thoughtfully ducked back in to Harry's room, retrieving Hedwig's cage.

Downstairs, Dumbledore motioned them back a bit. "A bit slower down here, I think. Hopefully this will give us a little more clarity about exactly what happened to give Harry cause to violate the restriction for underage wizardry. Again." Dumbledore began to wave his wand in an intricate pattern, sending a shimmering wave of distortion outward from the tip.

It was certainly one of the oddest pieces of magic Lupin had ever seen worked, watching in awe as several hand sized bloodstains peeled themselves away from the entrance door and wall to dissolve in a shimmer. As Dumbledore's spell progressed, the events of a short time ago played out before their eyes in an eerily reversed slow motion. The door to the cupboard under the stairs slowly swung shut, the locks fastening with a click, one by one. Next, the largest of the bloodstains peeled off the wall and Lupin could almost see someone dragging themselves backward across the floor in the way the stains were snaking back towards the pile of glass. It seemed as if nothing happened for a while, but then Lupin noticed that the glass was shifting around and he could clearly see the impression of someone's body in the way the glass was pressed into a dwindling pool of blood. Someone too big to be Harry Potter, but not big enough to be Vernon Dursley. It had to have been Snape, Lupin realized, sick as he watched the glass table reassemble itself, the floor now clear of any blood. A moment later the photos littering the floor around bottom of the wall righted themselves and climbed upwards, bouncing around a bit before finally settling to hang peacefully, leaving all else still as the spell dissipated.

Lupin and Arthur glanced at each other, then at Dumbledore, who stood very still before he finally turned to look at them, his voice hardly above a whisper when he finally spoke. "I think it safe to say that Severus and Harry were both here this evening, and that somehow, one, or both of them, ended up in some sort of. . .muggle fight. Most likely with Vernon Dursley, assuming that what Petunia walked in on was Harry trying to stun his Uncle. As to what circumstances would lead Severus to engage in a muggle brawl. . .and with a muggle as large as Dursley. . ." Dumbledore trailed off, a look of disbelief clear in his eyes.

"We need to find them," Lupin gave a small shrug, head bowed as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then glancing back to Arthur and Dumbledore in turn, he continued, "As to what would cause Severus to allow himself to be part of a muggle fight- frankly, I have a hard time even imagining him here at all, with Harry, for five days, no less. Especially after what happened with the occlumency lessons last spring."

Dumbledore turned a shade paler, clearly not having thought about that yet, with everything else that had been going on. "We _do_ need to find them. As soon as possible." He paused a moment, giving the Dursley's home a final glance before he moved to the door. All now looked perfectly ordinary, the signs of the earlier wreckage gone as though disaster had never struck. "We can assume that they left here together. After Harry cast stupefy, the Patronus would have been next, obviously trying to bring us here to help, which implies he was not intending to leave immediately or he wasn't going far. They may still be nearby, even."

A short time later found the three of them standing on a street corner, the signpost indicating the intersection of Magnolia and Privet. It was the last place that they knew Harry had been, but whatever had happened here other than a simple violation of underage wizardry was anyone's guess, now. Rain gusted down the street in sheets , starting to overwhelm the ever- dry charm Dumbledore had cast earlier. Despite having searched the surrounding area with both magical and mundane means, naught but a dim tracer where Harry had cast _Reducio_ was to be found.

"You think they went by broom? Both of them?" Lupin ventured, hunched against the weather.

"Harry's trunk and firebolt certainly weren't at the Dursley's." Dumbledore replied, "But I admit, even I find it extremely difficult to envision Harry and Severus riding double on one broom."

"What about apparition?" Arthur added, "Does Harry know how to apparate yet? Or maybe Snape apparated them both. . .somewhere?"

"I think if Severus was in any condition to apparate himself anywhere, he would not have been here. But that begs the question of why he was here in the first place, doesn't it? As for Harry, I do not believe him capable of apparition yet, though I expect he will study it this coming year. Remus?"

"He's never said anything to me about it, but Sirius would have been the one to know, or Ron and Hermione."

Dumbledore sighed, but it was lost to the wind. "I suggest we return to Hogwarts and call a meeting of the Order. It seems there is little else to be found here, except perhaps a most thorough drenching"

Arthur and Lupin nodded agreement, and a moment later the pavement under the signpost stood empty.

* * *

October 2011


	13. True Colors

_(13) – True Colors_

_[Friday, very early]_

_Cold. And wet. A trail of Muggle lights, stretching endlessly into the night. A thousand icy needles impaling him, numbing the fire in his shoulder but making it impossible to keep his eyes open._

Snape came awake slowly, struggling to fit the memories together as they returned, disjointed and blurred. _On a broom, flying, then on the ground, staring up at Potter._ _A filthy Muggle with even filthier thoughts._ _Hot water pouring down. Then gone, to be replaced by someone leaning over him, reaching for his throat. But not to strangle. Potter, reaching to undo the buttons at the collar of the soaked Muggle shirt he still wore. And him thinking that just because the boy had his mother's eyes, didn't mean he wanted to be undressed by him._

No…not just thinking that. With a muffled groan, Snape realized he must've said it too, because the next thing he recalled was the resounding slam of the bathroom door and Potter finally leaving him alone. Where he'd managed to peel off the soggy Muggle clothes from earlier and struggle into a set of dry tracksuit bottoms and shirt. Or at least the bottoms, he thought, hazily recalling his attempt to pull the Muggle shirt over his head resulting in finding himself lying on the floor. Which must've brought Potter back, as he could dimly recall someone trying to help him stand. And that followed by a strangled cry when the movement ignited explosions in his shoulder, across his chest, and in a dozen lines of fire all over his back. And then after that, nothing.

And now he was lying curled on his side, half face-down in an unfamiliar bed. Dim red light from a Muggle clock spilled across the sheets, the only source of illumination, as he finally realized what must have woke him. He was being _called._ The Dark Mark on his left arm burned, lending its own distinct note to the cacophony of all else that threatened to drown him in haze of pain. And if that wasn't enough, a short distance away, he could see Potter twisting in his sleep, a sheen of sweat on the boy's forehead and the sheets mostly kicked off the bed. And Potter was hissing something in what sounded suspiciously like Parseltongue.

Snape watched silently, sickened and fascinated at the same time, sure it was no ordinary nightmare. Potter suddenly lashed out, as if trying to push something away, the hisses sputtering to a stop, to be replaced with raw pleading, "NO!, No, please! Please…no, she didn't do anything…" and then he was still for several breaths before erupting in a snarl, "GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD! OUT…Out...out..." repeating until it was just a sob-choked whisper as the nightmare slowly lost its grip on him. A moment later Potter rolled over and sat up, pressing a hand to the scar on his forehead.

It was a good minute or two that Potter sat like that, before finally noticing he was being watched. And when his green eyes slid over to meet Snape's black, Snape could see a wet trail of tears glistening down his face in the faint light. Potter quickly looked away, then down at Snape's left arm, where he had unconsciously clamped his right hand over the spot where the dark mark was.

"He's calling, isn't he?" Potter whispered.

Snape shut his eyes, wishing he could shut out the burn on his arm just as easily. "Yes…"

"What," Potter paused, a shiver entering his voice, "are you going to do?"

What could he do? "Don't know." Even the thought of moving hurt right now. "Nothing…can hardly go to the Dark Lord like this…"

"Yeah, right, that'd go over real well, wouldn't it?" Potter said, his hand dropping from the scar to wipe his shirtsleeve across his face. "Hello Voldemort, I'm here for the torture session. Sorry I'm late and I forgot my Death Eater Robes and Mask. And by the way, have you seen my wand? Yeah, I'm sure that'd be just great."

_Don't say the Dark Lord's name._ He wanted to pound it in to Potter's thick skull, but rather than wasting energy in that uphill battle he put Potter's delightful little scenario out of his mind and instead asked, "What happened, Potter? Just now, while you were…dreaming?"

Potter looked uncomfortable, hugging himself as a shiver ran through his thin shoulders before he finally spoke. "I…it's fuzzy…they were torturing someone…a woman…not a Muggle, someone important. I think Voldemort wanted me to see-" Potter must have finally seen something in Snape's expression then, because he said, "sorry, I mean You-Know-Who, I think he _wanted_ me to know he had her, and that he now knew what she knew. Whatever that was. And then his snake…I tried to get her to stop, but she wouldn't listen…she was hungry…"

Snape felt sick. Potter was watching Death Eaters torture people and talking to the Dark Lord's pet snake in his dreams. "Nagini...could hear you?"

"Yeah, I think so. But maybe I just dreamed it, too."

"How many dreams like this have you had…since…" Snape trailed off, not sure how to say '_since you were an idiot and went running off to play hero at the ministry'_ without upsetting Potter, which he wanted to avoid at the moment. This- this was important, if Dumbledore was wrong that the Dark Lord would now be avoiding the connection between the two of them…and Nagini as well, apparently.

"Since Hogwarts?" Potter supplied, unaware of Snape's thoughts. "None, at least like this. A few times…I think I dreamed something, but nothing I could remember when I woke up. My scar would just hurt a little. But…" and Potter suddenly found something about the floor intensely interesting, "the night…the night Uncle Vernon, " and then Potter looked up, as if he just now remembered who he was telling all this to. "Why do _you_ want to know?"

Snape shut his eyes briefly at the question, nearly overwhelmed by the desire to leave them that way. This was for Dumbledore or Lupin, not him. He just wanted to go to sleep, away from all things Potter. Or Potter's Uncle. But instead he sighed and said, "I don't want to know, Potter. But if I don't ask, are you going to tell Dumbledore? Or anyone else? When? Somehow I think the answers to those questions are 'No' and 'Never.' And don't tell me that even you can't see that it might be important to know if the Dark Lord is still getting in your mind."

Potter seemed to struggle with that for a moment before he finally said, "Fine. On the night that Uncle Vernon…beat me," and here Potter paused, as if the words left an unfamiliar taste in his mouth, "Well, it happened because I got a letter by owl- it had Dumbledore's writing on it. It was _mine_, but Uncle Vernon took it. And he burned it. Without even opening it. I was _so_ angry. And then, I don't really remember exactly how it happened, but-" Potter's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "it was Vol- You-Know-Who. He was inside my head. He knew I was angry and he was egging me on…trying to get me to attack, to _want_ to kill my Uncle. I remember going for Uncle Vernon, but then…I don't know…it was like I was _too_ angry…I knew it wasn't me. And I…forced him out. I don't really remember much else. I guess while I was busy trying to get Vold-, I mean, You-Know-Who out of my head, Uncle Vernon must have been busy thrashing me. The next thing I remember is waking up in my room the next day after you must've…fixed me up a bit."

Snape frowned. He remembered seeing Potter's blood on his fingers, but the rest was hazy. And too much effort to sort out at the moment. "You _forced_ the Dark Lord out of your mind? How, exactly, do you think you accomplished that?"

Potter either didn't hear or chose to ignore the note in Snape's voice that clearly said 'there is no way that that is what happened, whether you believe it or not.'

"I showed him…made him feel…what I feel for my friends…for Sirius…like what I think about when I cast a Patronus." Potter said quietly, still staring at the floor, but then he looked up to meet Snape's eyes defiantly. "He can't stand that. It hurts him."

Snape was silent. _Could it really be that simple?_ Then why didn't it stop the Dark Lord from torturing others through legilimency? Surely he would have encountered such feelings before. In fact, Snape had witnessed him use feelings of that sort against those who held them, twisting them artfully into a force that would sustain a person far beyond reason. Such as enticing a husband to endure that much longer, because the man would think if he could he just hang on, his wife or child might be left alone, or escape, or whatever. It was a favorite ploy of the Dark Lord, to so twist the minds of his victims, usually right in front of their loved ones, then drop it at the end, letting them see how it had been hopeless all along, their love pointless and serving only to prolong the pain.

No, there _had_ to be more to Potter's claim. Either Potter was doing more than he realized, or, much as Snape was loathe to admit it, maybe there _was_ something special about the boy. After all, the normal rules didn't seem to apply to him in the first place when it came to this connection with the Dark Lord's mind, so maybe it was that simple. For Potter. Either way, he supposed it was good Potter had found a way to fight back, but not good that the Dark Lord was still toying with the boy's mind. The last thing he needed was to wake up and see the Dark Lord's eyes staring at him out of Potter's face.

"Why do you think You-know-who wanted me to see him torturing that woman?" Potter spoke, seeming unwilling to let the silence go on.

"How should I know, Potter? _You're_ the one with the direct connection into the Dark Lord's head. Not to mention that I'm here in some dodgy Muggle inn, with you. Not wherever the Dark Lord is, as I should be." The words spilled out before he could rein in his sudden anger. Antagonizing Potter might not be such a good idea, considering what he'd just discovered.

Potter's expression darkened and it looked as though he was going to make an angry retort, but then something shifted, and he said, "Wait- what do you mean you should be with the Dark Lord? I thought…I figured…that he'd found out. And that's why he did…whatever happened to you before you came here. Or, I mean, to the Dursleys."

Potter was either astoundingly naïve, or he seriously over-estimated Snape's abilities. Snape was pretty sure it was not the latter. "You think I would still be alive if the Dark Lord thought for one instant I had betrayed him? Don't be a fool, Potter."

"Then why-"

"That's none of your concern." Which was _not_ the right thing say, judging by the flush that crept up Potter's face.

"You show up at my house with some cryptic warning, pass out, get blood all over the Dursleys' floor, and _it's not my concern?_ Everything that's happened in the last week, is that not my concern too?" Potter was standing now, his voice raised so that Snape had no doubt it was audible through the thin walls. "I want to know what's going on! DON'T KEEP ME IN THE DARK! AGAIN! IT _IS_ MY CONCERN! If Voldemort still thinks you're on his side, then WHY? Why did he…torture you…like that?"

Snape knew he must have looked as uncomfortable as he felt, because Potter suddenly sat back down, looking slightly guilty, but still staring at Snape with arms crossed. There was no reason he should answer Potter. None at all. What Bella had done and why really wasn't anything Potter needed to know. And he certainly didn't want to discuss it. Not the way the boy wanted him too. So why did he now feel compelled to give an answer? Was it Lily's eyes, staring at him stonily from Potter's face that did it?

"I…don't remember everything. And it's…complicated." Grimacing, Snape held his right arm as still as possible and used the left to push himself over so he lay on his back, his eyes tracking the fine cracks in the ceiling. How to start? How much should he tell Potter? _Nothing._ That was easy.

"Complicated?"

"Yes, complicated. Not everything is black and white, Potter. I…did something…made an arrangement with someone. I should have said no, but…it's not that simple…and it was never meant to come to the attention of the Dark Lord. But Bella," Snape's lip curled as he said the name. "Bella-"

"Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Yes." _And if you interrupt me one more time I'm not saying another word. I can't believe I'm telling you any of this in the first place._ He didn't say it, but Potter must have heard it anyways, because he shut his mouth and sat back, listening.

"Bellatrix knew about the…arrangement. And she knew that if the Dark Lord found out, that it would- that he would be…_displeased_. Especially with me. So when I was summoned the day I, as you so eloquently put it, 'showed up and got blood all over your floor,' I arrived to find Bellatrix had told the Dark Lord everything. " A haunted note crept into Snape's voice as he remembered walking in to find a full circle of death eaters facing him, wands drawn. His eyes flicked down to the Dark Mark, etched so permanently in his skin, though no longer burning, as he continued softly, "I didn't have a chance…Bella, she was laughing. I don't think she'd yet thought what it would mean for Cissy, only that she'd succeeded in putting me out of favor with the Dark Lord. I don't remember… much…about what happened next. Crucio. Some other things. I don't even remember what happened to my wand. I do remember the Dark Lord telling Bella how proud he was of her, how this almost made up for the fiasco at the ministry. How he was going to let her be the one to lead the attack on famous Harry Potter." _And Bella practically glowing with pride, as the Dark Lord dismissed the others, and told her not to play too rough with Severus, he wanted an example, not a body, and it might be nice after all if someone competent was around to finish Draco's task._

Snape sighed, letting his eyes flick back to Potter before he continued, "The Dark Lord left Bella to…to make an example of me, but not to kill me. He was angry, but there was no reason to think I'd betrayed him. The rest, I don't remember it clearly…at some point Bella became more interested in carrying on about the honor she had been given than casting curses… I suppose I apparated to your house, then. You needed to be warned."

Snape looked away as he finished, not at all wanting to see the look of horror and pity that he knew would be in Potter's eyes_. Lily's_ _eyes._ Was that what had possessed him to say all this, _to Potter_, no less? A memory of her green eyes, silently pleading with him, trying to understand? He _never _told _anyone_ _anything_ about what happened to him as a Death Eater. Not like that, anyway. Not even Dumbledore, though he knew the headmaster could read between the lines. No, he just reported what the order needed to know, who was planning what, who was going where and so on. _Never_ that he'd been Crucio'd so badly he couldn't remember half of what had happened.

Somewhere in the distance a Muggle vehicle roared to life as Potter broke the silence. "What a _git_." The word was wholly inadequate, but the way that Potter said it gave it all the meaning in the world. "He thinks you're on his side, and he does that to you? What does he do if you don't come when he calls?"

Eyelids impossibly heavy, Snape couldn't keep an edge of exhaustion out of his voice. "Well…if I returned to him late, but had you along for show, I expect he'd be rather pleased…care to find out?"

"That's not funny."

"Mmm…perhaps I'm not joking..." Snape returned dryly, the words trailing off as he felt sleep pull him into her seductive embrace. He heard Potter give a derisive snort, but anything else was lost as the soft darkness of oblivion claimed him.

* * *

October 2011


	14. Echoes of Truth

(14) – Echoes of Truth

The voices echoed down the hall, so loud that the extendable ear that Ron, Hermione and Ginny were all trying to share wasn't really necessary. They were, of course, supposed to be asleep at this late hour, and most definitely _not_ huddled together on the landing immediately above the staff room, attempting to eavesdrop on the hastily called Order meeting. But when Molly Weasley had ordered them off to bed, despite the fact that Dumbledore, Arthur, and Remus had just returned, it had only been a short while before they had met in the empty common room, exchanged glances, and quietly headed out the door.

"Albus! See reason!" the loud voice was clearly identifiable as Mad-eye Moody. "He's attacked a Muggle family and he's got Potter! If it were any other way, you would have found the two of them there, waiting. Potter tried to call us, but we didn't make it in time, and now your pet Death Eater has got the boy!"

"Alastor, that's not how it was, you weren't there, you weren't in that room, you can't know-" The softer voice of Remus reasoned, but was cut off by another, deeper voice.

"Both of you need to consider that you may be wrong. I, for one, don't understand why Potter would have left the safety of the house, especially after sending the patronus to us. It does not make sense, unless he was either taken, or running from someone. And yet there was no sign that the wards were breached by force-"

"Because it was an inside job." Moody interjected.

"Possibly." The deep voice replied. Ron mouthed "Shacklebolt?" to Hermione and Ginny, and they both nodded. "But I agree that Snape was there for some time, perhaps since the night he missed the meeting. And it does not make sense that he would remain there for so long if he were truly acting to capture Harry."

"Might be it just took that long for him to figure a way to bring down the wards." Moody shot back.

There was a sigh, then the unmistakable voice of Dumbledore. "Alastor, Kingsley, I will take your points into consideration – Mind, I trust Severus Snape absolutely– that has not changed. But I will admit, he can be quite. . .volatile, especially where young Mr. Potter is concerned, despite my greatest wishes to the contrary. And there is no doubt in my mind that Severus was there, and for an extended period of time. As for the wards, they were not breached by force. Assuming that Harry is still with us, I believe it most likely that the protection fell because Harry can no longer call number 4, Privet Drive, his home. And as to whether or not Severus had a hand in that. . .we shall have to wait until we learn more. And should it turn out that he has. . ." Dumbledore trailed off, letting out another sigh. Above, Ron, Hermione and Ginny all exchanged horrified glances.

An echoing footstep warned of the arrival of another order member, and the eavesdroppers rapidly reeled in the extendable ear and drew back into the shadows as Minerva McGonagall approached, passing directly below them as she stepped into the staff room. As the ear was let down again, the three Gryffindors could hear the sudden cacophony of questions that greeted her arrival.

"Are the Muggles—"

"—find out what happened?"

"—need St. Mungo's—"

"Does the ministry know what—"

"-Ministry involved, then You-know-who will have learned—"

"Hush! Let her speak!" Molly Weasley's no-nonsense voice cut through the clamour with ease, having had plenty of practice after raising five boys.

"Thank you, Molly." McGonagall began, the sudden silence in the room making it easy for the listeners above to hear as she continued, "As you know, Albus asked that I check on the Dursleys', both to make certain that they were okay and to see if I could find out anything further about what happened. Well," and here she paused, as if collecting her thoughts, "I found them at the hospital – all of them. Not just Harry's immediate family, but Vernon Dursley's sister as well."

An immediate murmur followed this announcement, quickly silenced by Dumbledore, "Please, continue."

"At first I thought it was merely the worst sort of coincidence that she, too, was unwell, but-" McGonagall was struggling to keep her voice even, clearly upset at whatever bit of information she had yet to pass on. "Albus- the woman, Marge Dursley, she was also the victim of a magical attack."

"What type of-"

"Do you think Harry-"

"More likely Snape!"

"-the same Muggle that Harry blew up a few years ago?"

Suddenly the questions ceased, and then Dumbledore spoke. "Minerva? What exactly are you saying? There were only four instances of underage magic, all connected to the incident with Vernon Dursley."

"That may be, Albus, but Marge Dursley was clearly suffering from the effects of an extremely powerful silencing hex. The poor Muggle healers were beside themselves trying help the woman, and I very nearly had to put a call in to St. Mungo's myself before I managed to lift it. And when I did – she was quite hysterical, to put it mildly. Unfortunately, I had to obliviate her before she said anything particularly intelligible about what happened– she was setting off all those Muggle contraptions."

"What did she say, Minerva?"

"Well, she said, 'the plumber,' and 'that worthless son of a freakish whore,' a number of times, along with a lot of nonsense about bloodlines, service people, and fixing things for her brother. Truly, Albus, it might've been best to have left the silencing hex in place – she was quite a vile woman. You can hardly blame Harry for being provoked into hexing her."

"Couldn't have been Potter-" Moody jumped in, "-would've tripped the underage accidental magic alarms."

"You think _Severus_-" Minerva replied, her voice troubled.

"And that makes _two_ Muggles now that Snape's attacked, Dumbledore." Moody continued, his voice gruff. "_Still_ think he's not a Death Eater?"

There was silence from below, while above, Ron scowled, mouthing 'Snape', and mimed punching the professor. Hermione and Ginny looked on, grim.

Then the headmaster's voice came over the extendable ear again, this time sounding incredibly tired. "Yes, Alastor, I still trust Severus Snape. But I am forced to agree with you that it was Severus, and not Harry, that is most likely responsible for Marge Dursley's condition. Though how, and more importantly, _why _Severus found it necessary to hex a defenseless Muggle woman, is something I would dearly like to know. And I _will_ find out." Dumbledore said the last quietly, but with an edge to his voice seldom heard by those who knew him only as headmaster.

Then, continuing, Dumbledore asked, "And what of Vernon Dursley?"

McGonagall sighed, then spoke, "I'm afraid I've little good news there, either, at least as far as Severus is concerned. Potter's uncle was definitely attacked, and stupefy was the least of it. Albus, it was- " McGonagall paused, clearly reluctant to deliver more heartbreaking news to the headmaster. But she pressed on stiffly, "It was legillimency. I'm sorry." McGonagall paused again, giving Dumbledore a moment to absorb the news, before she continued, this time in a much softer voice. "Potter's uncle was still suffering the effects when I arrived, despite the fact that the actual attack must have occurred some hours before. The best I could do for him was to obliviate his memory of the entire evening. I'm sorry, Albus- I know you would have liked to learn exactly what happened, but I couldn't leave the man like that, suffering."

"No, Minerva, you did the right thing. I think perhaps it is best that they have no memory of these events. I will see to Petunia and her son as well, unless you have already done so?"

"No -the boy I did not see, but Petunia was asleep in Vernon's room, and I saw no need to wake her, since you had spoken with her previously. I left the Muggle healers with the impression that Vernon had simply spent a bit too much time out in the pub, so I expect they will discharge him shortly."

"Very well." Dumbledore sighed. "I will visit the Dursleys' in the morning, and see what I can do to put things right again. We can but hope that I may be able to persuade Petunia to allow Harry back at least once more, just long enough to re-establish the wards. Arthur, Molly, I know we had planned on you keeping him at the Burrow for the last few weeks before term starts, but in light of current events, he would be safest at his home, or here, if I am unsuccessful in persuading Petunia. In fact, I am prepared to offer you and your children the safety of Hogwarts as well, if you wish it."

"Thank you, Albus, for that." Arthur Weasley spoke, subdued, 'We may very well take you up on it, for a time, anyway."

There was a general rustling from below, and Ron, Hermione, and Ginny shared a glance, sensing that the meeting was drawing to a close, and it was time for a strategic retreat. As they pulled up the extendable ear, the last thing they heard was Dumbledore, Moody, and Remus discussing where they should best start their search for the missing Boy-Who-Lived and Potions Master.

. . .

"We have to help Harry! We can't just leave him out there with Snape! That- that great greasy, slimy Slytherin, _bloody bat bastard!" _Ron's voice escalated with each word, and he punched the air in frustration.

"How? We don't even know where to start looking, Ron." Hermione pointed out, as the three of them sat morosely in the Gryffindor common room, discussing what they'd just learned.

"I dont' know! But we've got to do something! You heard what they said. Snape's got Harry and he's taking him to You-Know-Who!"

"That's not what Dumbledore thinks." Hermione countered.

"Well, Dumbledore didn't have any idea where Snape would have taken Harry, either." Ginny put in unhappily.

Making a sound of frustration, Ron abruptly jumped up and started stalking around the common room. "There's got to be something we can do. It's just not right, us sitting here, while Harry's out there, with Snape. _Ughhh_ – could you imagine, stuck with _Snape_ for a week. That's, it's, just- _bloody awful."_

"There _is _something the three of you can do." Dumbledore's quiet voice suddenly cut into their conversation, startling all three Gryffindors into a shamefaced silence. Followed by Moody, the headmaster stepped quietly into the common room. Behind him, Moody smirked, and tapped his magical eye with two fingers.

"But first, I want your solemn word that none of you will leave the Hogwarts grounds, except under adult supervision, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." Hermione and Ginny both answered, while Ron, still standing, at first glanced away with a sullen expression, before he finally met Dumbledore's eyes and nodded, "Yeah, me too."

"Now, that that's out of the way, I trust the three of you are caught up on current events?" Dumbledore asked, a slight twinkle evident behind his spectacles. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all exchanged guilty looks, then Dumbledore continued, softly, "We _will_ find Harry, and Professor Snape. But those out searching for them need to know that the three of you are here, and safe. And there is a task here that would benefit greatly from the skills of three young Gryffindors such as yourselves, and may prove extremely helpful to us in finding Harry as well."

Dumbledore paused, turning to Moody, who continued, "Have any of you ever heard of the Blood-Hound potion?"

Both Ron and Ginny immediately turned to Hermione, who shook her head, "No."

Moody grunted, "Not surprising. It's an obscure potion, typically only used by Aurors. It's not difficult to make, but it has an extremely limited shelf-life, so we can't keep a stock of it on hand, not to mention that it might just be one of those potions that the ministry, ahh. . .keeps track of. So. I want you to make some of it." And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with some hastily scribbled writing on it, handing it to Hermione.

"All the ingredients, except for the blood moss, you should be able to find in the potions' stores, here in the castle. The blood moss, I expect you can find in the forbidden forest – it grows on rocks where the moonlight hits, and only in spots where something has recently, err, died. And it has to be fresh when it goes into the potion- tricky stuff. It dries up quick and loses it's effect if you don't use it right away. So. Hagrid has volunteered to help you with it; he'll be waiting, when you're ready. And remember, _Constant Vigilance!_ The forest can still be dangerous, even to you three." Moody looked them each in the eye, then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, the old auror finished, "We'll need it in the morning, if you can manage it. Bloody good stuff - you can track a dark wizard across thin air, if it's done right."

Ron, Ginny and Hermione all exchanged glances, as Hermione started to study the handwritten instructions intently.

"Oh, and Granger, you might want to destroy that paper once you're done with it. Wouldn't be good for a young upstanding witch such as yourself to be caught with- er, well, just destroy it. _Constant Vigilance!_" And with that, Moody's eye did a quick three-sixty as the old wizard turned briskly and left the three of them with Dumbledore.

"I do not give you this task idly," the headmaster said, looking at each young wizard levelly, "Alastor is correct about this potion. It is a difficult thing, to track a wizard through thin air, but not impossible, and aurors are very good at it. And Alastor Moody is a very, very good auror. And he has just shared with you a highly regulated, and well-kept secret of their trade. Treat it wisely. And, we _will_ find Harry."

* * *

9 OCTOBER 2011

* * *

REVIEW! (really, its easy, the link's _right_ there...)


	15. The Memory Remains

(15) The Memory Remains

It was morning, though you could hardly tell. A thick grey blanket of cold mist obscured everything, distorting light and sound alike, and coating Harry's glasses with an ever present film of water droplets. The Boy-Who-Lived made his way down the deserted Muggle street, the run-down, empty buildings a perfect mirror to how he felt at the moment. Empty. And beaten. Every muscle aching, even a few he didn't know existed. And he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Snape hadn't woken since their quiet conversation in the small hours of the night, a conversation so outside of Harry's experience with the man that he wasn't entirely sure the whole thing hadn't been just a terribly vivid dream. He wished it had. He wished the whole last week was nothing but a horrible nightmare. No, not even the last week, the last three months. He wished he could wake up in his bed at Hogwarts, and know that Sirius was still out there, somewhere, safe and alive.

Ahead, a flickering light pulled Harry's attention back to the present. It was a neon sign, the garish fluorescent colors casting odd shadows through the slowly swirling mist. As he approached, he could make out the lettering, "HOT PIES!" A local bakery, or at least a convenience store- either way, Harry headed toward it, the rumble in his stomach reminding him of why he was out here in the first place. Reaching out to open the door, Harry heard a sudden scrape behind him, like a rusty chain dragging over cobblestones. Turning quickly, his other hand slipped to his pocket automatically, fingers wrapping around his wand as he peered into the mist. Nothing. He strained to hear, statue still and hardly daring to breathe, but the strange sound did not come again; only the buzzing of the neon sign and the slow drip of water falling from the eaves reached his ears.

Unsettled, but seeing nothing except grey eddies of mist, Harry finally turned back and entered the store.

. . .

This time, when Snape woke, memory returned swiftly. He would have preferred it not return at all though, when he recalled the events that led up to him finding himself lying here, feeling as though every thrashing he'd ever had had just been revisited upon him, simultaneously. He contemplated how painful it would be to get up. Probably very. Wincing, he shifted just enough to get a look at the Muggle clock on the bedside table. A quarter after seven. By now, the whole of the wizarding world was no doubt hunting them, or at least Potter. Who was gone, he saw, taking in the empty bed across from him. _Wonderful. _Now, not only were both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore probably out searching for the _Chosen One_, he'd have to find him too.

Gritting his teeth, Snape braced himself for what he knew was to come, then quickly moved to sit up before he could change his mind. Fire blossomed down his back, his shoulder screamed in silent agony, and stars danced across his vision, in perfect time with the pounding in his head. He sat on the edge of the bed, slightly hunched over, unable to think or move, locked in a desperate struggle not to scream. Breath coming in ragged gasps, he gave silent thanks that Potter was not here after all.

Gradually the waves of pain died down, and Snape was able to open his eyes once again. Not quite ready to try anything more just yet, he let his gaze drift over their current accommodations. The room was dark- barely any light filtered in through the gaps in the faded drapery. _Probably still raining._ But there was light enough to see Potter's broom leaning against the wall by the door and his duffle resting atop a chest of drawers that had seen its best days years ago. A liberal assortment of clothing spilled out of the bag to litter the floor below. _Could the boy do nothing without making a mess?_ But he spied his next goal amongst the those items that were still just threatening to escape the confines of Potter's duffle– a large hooded Muggle sweatshirt, dark and warm looking. And at least three steps away.

Exhaling slowly, Snape glanced down at himself, taking stock of his latest injuries. Several small cuts marred his arms, and he could feel worse across his back. Fresh bruises covered his chest, courtesy of Potter's uncle. But the worst of the damage that the oversize Muggle had inflicted on him, he couldn't see, only feel; a sharp stab that followed every breath, a deep soreness in his side, and a shoulder that was once again a smoldering pile of embers, ready to transform into a raging bonfire at the slightest movement. Any progress he'd made healing it with Potter's wand had been undone the instant a beefy fist had smashed into the fragile network of barely knitted bone.

Snape let his eyes close, fighting back a wave of helpless fury. How had he come to this? _Thrashed by a Muggle._ He'd been done with that the day he'd first held his own wand in his hand. _Never again._ _Never!_ Choking back a bitter laugh, Snape felt a fresh wave of anger wash through him. Less than a week without that wand, and look what he'd come to. He felt his fingers curl into fists, little sparks of warning shooting from his injured shoulder at the movement, but he no longer cared. _He was not a Muggle!_ And wand or not, he refused to act like one any longer, waiting, helpless to stop the next blow from landing.

With half a snarl, he pushed himself off the bed, stumbling over to the sweatshirt, pointedly refusing to acknowledge both the sudden dizziness that made the room tilt around him or the humiliating irony that his goal was an unmistakably _Muggle_ garment. Jerking the offending article of clothing out of Potter's bag, Snape pulled it over his head, choking on the sudden rush of pain that ripped through him like a fresh bout of _Crucio_. Reeling, he staggered back into the bed, tried to catch himself, but ended up half-falling, half-sliding to a sprawled seat on the floor. Eyes squeezed shut and barely breathing, he cradled his right arm tight against his chest, wishing he had never woken up, never been born.

When Snape was finally able to open his eyes again, he couldn't make out anything; shapes and colors blurred together in a confusing jumble. Then, blinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his face. The image resolved itself, and he saw he had dislodged Potter's bag, half the remaining contents spilling across the floor in an even bigger mess than the boy had left. And there, nestled among Potter's scattered belongings, he saw _it._

Dark wood, carved in exquisite detail, the small box lay on its side, exposed where Potter's invisibility cloak had slipped off it in the fall. Snape stared, transfixed, the wild fury of a moment before utterly evaporated. Unable to take his eyes from the object, he felt as though someone had vanished the floor from beneath him, leaving him falling, spinning wildly with no solid ground in sight. Slowly, Snape pushed himself forward onto his knees, and reached out to touch the box, fingers tracing the lines in the wood, the delicate whorls and ridges, the intertwined flowers and letters, running over and over _her_ name. Gently, he lifted it from the floor, oblivious now to everything except the box in his hand and long buried memory.

_Christmas. Snow was falling, so beautiful, so pure_. Until it landed, becoming inseparable from and blackened by the filth of the Muggle streets. He'd been cold, but that was normal, and utterly irrelevant to him as he made his way through the slush to her house. Tucked tightly under his arm was a small package. He'd spent nearly all the summer crafting what was inside, painstakingly shaping each tiny leaf and flower, working the magic into the wood, happily lost in the details of it while in the rooms below the never ending war between his Mum and Dad played out its final stages. And though Lily had not said a word to him since their sixth year had started, and before that she'd been gone with her Muggle family on extended holiday for the summer, he didn't care. And though part of him knew it was too late, that the break between them was both inevitable and irrevocable, and that she was right to not want anything to do with him, he kept walking. Because another part said _no_, there was still hope. He just. . . needed a chance to talk to her, like they used to, before everything became so complicated. Something to show her how much-

"What do _you_ want?" It was Petunia, standing on the porch, bundled against the cold. Clearly waiting for someone, someone who was most certainly not him.

Snape returned her glare, barely suppressing the desire to curse her with his best _Furnunculus_. The boils would be an improvement on her face, he thought. But instead he simply said, "Is Lily home? I'd like to speak with her and. . . I've brought something. . . for her. . . "

Petunia stared at him suspiciously for a moment before she whirled and opened the door to stick her head inside and call out, "Lily! Lily, Come down here! That horrible Snape boy's here asking for you! Please come down and make him go away! Vernon's going to arrive any second now and-"

"And what?" Lily returned as she came down the stairs and stuck her head out the door, fixing a cold green glare on her sister. "You don't want any _freaks_ around to spoil his first visit to the family? Afraid you might lose your catch if he finds out about _us_?" Then ignoring her sister she turned her icy eyes to Snape instead.

"Why are you here? I told you last year – you chose your way, I chose mine."

"I-" he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. All the things he'd been planning to say, that he'd so very carefully thought out- they were gone. His mind was blank, he couldn't have emptied it more if he'd been trying. "I-" he stammered. Petunia snorted, then impatiently stomped over to him and jerked the small package from his hands.

"He said he wanted to talk, but obviously that's too difficult. And he said he brought something for you. A Christmas gift, I suppose. Here- take it, so we can get this over with and he can run along home." She thrust the package at Lily.

But Lily crossed her arms, refusing the gift, though the glare faded from her green eyes as she turned to meet Snape's black. "Look, Sev. . .please. We're different. I- it can't work any more. . .there's just too much. . . I appreciate that you brought me something for Christmas. It's. . . nice. . . but, it just wouldn't be right for me to take it…" she finished softly, almost pleading with him, "we're not friends anymore. . . "

"Keep it anyways. . . " he whispered, not knowing how he kept his voice steady.

"Sev. . ."

But Petunia had had enough, and she practically snarled, "Fine. If neither of you wants it, then it's going in the rubbish bin!" And she whirled, carrying the small box inside, making a terrible racket out of depositing it in the rubbish bin, so that the two of them would be sure to hear.

. . .

And now, Snape held that same box in his hands once again, here in some dodgy Muggle Inn in some nameless Muggle town, blinking, as tears dripped off his chin. _She'd kept it._ All those years ago, she hadn't let it be tossed out like so much rubbish.

"_Semper,_" he whispered and the lock released with a barely audible click. Gently, he opened it, breath catching in his chest when he saw what was inside. Resting against black velvet lining, like a treasure waiting to be plucked from the deep, was a wand. _Her_ wand. Willow, ten and a quarter inches, he could remember the very day he had first set eyes on it, in Ollivander's shop, shortly before the start of their first year.

And now sitting here in this desperate situation, when he needed nothing so much as what was in front of him, he suddenly found himself unwilling to even touch it. It wasn't right. It was _hers._ Not his, not Potter's, no matter how it may have come to be in the boy's possession. The fingers of his left hand twitched. He couldn't make himself pick it up, not with his left hand. To hold Lily's wand, in the same hand where the Dark Mark was etched into his skin mere inches away. _No._

Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Snape carefully set the box down beside him and rubbed his sleeve across his face.

. . .

Harry was halfway back and halfway through his second hot pie when he heard the sound again. Spinning on his heel, he had his wand out and ready in less time than it took Mad-eye Moody to say _'Constant vigilance!'_, but once again, there was nothing there to see but the mist. He stared back down the street, but the dense grey fog obscured all but the nearest buildings, boarded up and covered in a smattering of peeling graffiti. Muttering under his breath, Harry slowly turned and started back towards their room, anxious to get out of the chill fog. And back to Snape. Ron would think he'd gone mental, but he was actually worried about the Potions Master. _Actually worried._ _How did that happen?_ Two weeks ago he'd have paid all the galleons in Gringotts to see someone, anyone, give Snape a good thrashing. And now, he'd seen it, and it hadn't cost a thing. Except he could no longer muster quite the same feelings of loathing and revulsion towards Snape.

Passing another abandoned building, Harry let his thoughts wander. He'd seen a side of Snape over the last few days that he'd never known existed, though if he were to be honest with himself, he should have. Last night wasn't the first time Snape had put himself at risk to help Harry, it was just the first time that Harry was unable to avoid seeing it. With the same uncomfortable feeling he'd had after witnessing Snape's memory in the Pensieve, Harry wondered what else he had missed.

Kicking at an empty can, Harry sent it rolling down the deserted street with a muted clatter. He'd dropped the pie he'd been eating when he'd drawn his wand, but he still had a bag with two more, meant for Snape. He wished he'd bought extras, but he hadn't wanted to spend too much of the Muggle money, unsure how much more might yet be needed.

_Snape knew about Muggle money._ The realization hit him like a bludger to the stomach. Snape knew about Muggle money, and Snape knew how to work the electric toaster in the Dursleys' kitchen. No other witch or wizard Harry knew, apart from those who were Muggle-born, would have been able to claim the same, especially if the Weasley's were anything to go by. And Snape was both a Slytherin_ and_ a Death Eater, surely as pure-blood as a wizard could get. It was a mystery, and short of simply asking Snape - something he couldn't quite yet imagine having a good outcome, it would likely have to remain unsolved. But he'd bet Hermione would have some ideas about it, if he ever made it back to Hogwarts, and the start of the coming term.

Finally nearing the run-down inn, Harry contemplated just exactly how they were going to get back to Hogwarts. Riding double on the broom was definitely off the list. He didn't know exactly how far they'd come, but he suspected they still had a long way yet to go, and there was no way he could manage it if he had to hold on to an unconscious Professor again. The muscles in his arm protested at just the thought. Maybe a car? He wondered if Snape knew anything about Muggle vehicles. . . but even if he did, what did it matter, where were they going to get a car?

Harry scowled, at a loss. He hadn't seen a train station nearby either, though as he came up to the inn, it occurred to him that maybe he could ask the Muggle at the hotel office.

Entering, Harry looked around the tiny lobby. It was empty.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

There was no answer, but he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Spying a partially open door, Harry tentatively edged around the manager's desk and looked in. The fat Muggle from the night before was seated in front of an ancient TV, and had apparently fallen asleep watching it. Every now and then, a snore escaped and the man's mouth moved, muttering something unintelligble. Harry was just about to wake him up when, lying on small table, nestled between several empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray, he saw the keys. They were _car_ keys. Harry's fingers twitched. It was wrong, he knew, but. . . they were desperate. And there was a war going on. And he would just _borrow_ the car. The Muggle would get it back. . .

Quiet as a mouse, Harry reached out, keeping one eye on the snoring Muggle as he eased the keys from their spot among the litter. Backing out of the room, he didn't even dare breathe, as he stuffed the keys in his pocket, quickly crossing the lobby and shoving the door open. His heart was racing as he stumbled back out into the fog, not quite believing what he'd just done. And then he heard the noise again, a raspy scrape, a hollow rattle, and impossibly close.

Looking up, Harry felt the blood drain from his face. _Dementors._ Three of them, at least. He felt the cold only an instant before he felt their touch.

* * *

14 OCT 2011

* * *

REVIEW! (really, it's easy, the link's _right_ there, and I know you just _love_ cliffhangers ::evile grin:: )


	16. The Morning After

(16) The Morning After

Dumbledore stood alone, surveying the street in the pale morning light. The storm of the night before had passed, leaving everything dripping as he approached the door to Number Four, Privet Drive. The Dursleys' car rested in the driveway, suggesting that the family had indeed returned home from the hospital last night. Glancing down, he surveyed himself, sighing. In place of his usual attire he wore a simple Muggle business suit, the only concession being an oddly striped tie. Every now and then the stripes rearranged themselves to form different patterns. Currently they were zebra-like, except for the colors, which were a bright purple and lime green.

Raising one hand, Dumbledore gave the door a gentle knock, waiting patiently as he let his thoughts drift back to the earlier meeting, and the mounting evidence against his Potions Master. He _did_ trust Severus, absolutely. What he did _not_ trust was Severus's ability to keep his emotions concerning young Mr. Potter in check. The two were like Hagrid's ill-advised crossing of manticores and fire crabs; mixing them together simply seemed to bring out the worst in each. He had even thought_, had hoped_, that the occlumency lessons of last year would finally let Severus see Harry in a different light, see that he was not the spoiled, arrogant boy that his father had, admittedly, once been. But that had certainly backfired. And in large part, his fault; if only he had been more forthcoming with Harry about what was happening, then perhaps the boy would not have been tempted to violate Severus's memories in a search for answers. Not that Dumbledore thought it was all that bad for someone, especially perhaps Harry, to see a few of those things that Severus most wished kept secret.

Exhaling heavily, the Headmaster raised his hand once again, giving the door another knock. And this time, a flick of his wand with the other ensured Petunia would hear it. A minute later steps could be heard, followed by the door opening a tiny crack, just large enough for someone to see who was calling. And then it slammed shut. Or would have, had Dumbledore not wedged one wing-tipped toe into place, refusing to be put off.

"I'll not have your kind—"

"Good morning, Petunia. My apologies for calling at such an early—"

"- in my home! _Ever. A—"_

"My dear. Please, must we be unpleasant?" Dumbledore said sadly. "I promise you, I will leave, and you will not be bothered again. I ask only that you hear me out, this once."

Glaring at the Headmaster, she put all her bony weight against the door, to no avail.

Softly, Dumbledore added, "For your own family's sake, as well as that of Harry. And for the memory of your sister, Lily."

Petunia's glare did not waver, but she ceased trying to shut the door on the headmaster.

"Fine. Speak."

"May I come inside? It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times. And, I trust you found the house in good order?"

Petunia's expression remained frozen, but her eyes flicked back to the living room, then up and down Dumbledore's subdued attire, lingering a disapproving moment on the tie, as the stripes chose that particular instant to re-arrange themselves into a series of interlocking spirals. But she finally took a grudging step back, leaving just enough room for the headmaster to enter.

Dumbledore showed himself inside, taking a seat at the kitchen table and waiting patiently for Petunia to do the same before he began.

"Now, I will not mince words, and we may dispense with the usual pleasantries, assuming you were planning to offer any. As you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than when I left him on your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own."

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and even, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, a chill emanated from him, causing Petunia to unconsciously draw the housecoat she was wearing tight over her morning dress.

"And, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, so long as Lord Voldemort lives, this threat extends to you and your husband and your son, regardless of whether Harry is here or not. But we will come to back that."

Dumbledore's gaze shifted to the stairway, and the bedrooms beyond. "First, I would like to assure you that both your husband and Marjorie Dursley have suffered no permanent harm, and will be perfectly fine when they awake. The effects of the spells they were subjected to have been completely removed, though you should know that neither of them will retain any memory of last evening's events. You will be free to tell them whatever you wish. I daresay that a night out with a bit too much time spent at the pub would do nicely, but it is your choice."

Dumbledore looked back to Petunia, who resembled nothing so much as a human-size volcano, ready to explode at any instant.

"I will tell them no such thing! That boy, _Lily's son_," she spat, "Attacked my Vernon with his _magic_. We did our best to raise him right, but—"

Dumbledore raised his hand for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Petunia dumb, and it seemed that a shadow fell across his face as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Mrs. Dursley, you have indeed given shelter to Harry, and sustenance, but please, let there be no pretense between us. You have done so only grudgingly, and he has oft known only cruelty and neglect at your hands. You have never treated Harry as a son. You have never treated him with even a fraction of the love that your sister Lily would have undoubtedly wished you could have shown him."

An odd flush crept up Petunia's face, and she started to speak, but Dumbledore once again silenced her with a gesture.

"And yet, despite years of ill treatment towards Harry, the spell you witnessed him cast on his Uncle last night was not at all an attack. I'd say, rather, that it was most likely an act of mercy."

Petunia's eyes narrowed, disbelief clear on her face, but Dumbledore continued before she could argue.

"I will explain, but first, I would ask that you enlighten me as to exactly what you recall of the events that you witnessed last night."

"Why do you need me to tell you what happened? It seems you've already made your conclusions."

"I am aware of what spells Harry cast, as such things are monitored by the ministry of magic in the case of underage wizards. I am also aware of what spells were cast on both Vernon and Marjorie, as it was a colleague of mine who attended to them. Nothing that Harry cast could have been responsible for their condition. But Harry was not the only wizard present last night, was he?"

"_Snape."_ Petunia hissed, her voice filled with loathing.

"Yes." Dumbledore's voice was calm, and his expression betrayed no discernable emotion at the name.

"And while I know what spells were cast, it would greatly aid in my understanding of how we've arrived at this unfortunate juncture if you would consent to tell me what you know of last night's—ah, I believe the appropriate word is _disaster_."

Petunia glowered, and picking up a tea cup from the place setting before her, she turned it over and over in her hands, appearing to give serious study to the delicately painted flowers that lined the rim. Finally, she looked up to meet the headmaster's eyes, her lips forming a thin line.

"Vernon, Dudders, and I were at the Kennel Club, waiting on Marge. She'd run back to the house to pick up some up papers she'd left by mistake. But when she returned, she was. . . was having a fit of some sort. At first, we didn't suspect anything. We took her to the hospital, but when the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with her, except that she was inexplicably unable to speak-that was when we _knew_. She'd been _magicked_." Petunia stared defiantly at Dumbledore, but his expression remained serene, and he motioned for her to continue.

"The doctors gave her some pills, no doubt hoping that when she woke that her _odd_ affliction would have passed, but I knew better. I'd once heard that awful boy and my sister talking about permanent silencing charms – Lily even had the nerve to threaten me with one once, though of course, not in front of our Mum and Dad – oh no, nothing to let them see the truth about her. But I knew, oh yes. Just like I knew what had happened to Marge."

Petunia's face was flushed, and her bony fingers clutched the piece of crockery in her hand as though it were a lifeline to the normal world.

"But my Dudllikins and I stayed with her until she fell asleep, making sure she wasn't left to suffer alone," Harry's Aunt continued, unaware that as she spoke, Dumbledore's eyes looked into hers, and then beyond.

The headmaster watched as Vernon Dursley left, clearly upset at the state his sister was in, muttering under his breath as he collected Marge's car keys from her abnormally large handbag. He saw Petunia patting Marge's forehead as the Muggle medicine finally did its work, and the woman's pig-like eyes drifted shut. Then the scene shifted, with Petunia arriving at Number Four, Privet Drive, and opening the door just in time to see a bright flash of red light shoot from Harry's outstretched wand. Inwardly, Dumbledore sighed, as through Petunia's eyes he witnessed Harry breaking, yet again, the restriction on underage magic.

Vernon slumped forward as Harry's charm slammed into him. Dumbledore could see the huge man had been kneeling over something, seemingly muttering a single word over and over, but the headmaster was unable to make out either the word or what lay beneath Dursley. Then Petunia rounded the couch, frantically rushing to Vernon's side; revealing the full extent of the scene Dumbledore had only guessed at last night. And he felt his heart burst, shattering into a thousand aching pieces. _Severus._ _Blood running down his forehead. Dark eyes wide and unfocused._ _Glass shards at his back, the collar of the Muggle shirt he wore ripped wide. _It was Severus, pinned beneath the massive Dursley, and clearly the worse off for it.

Dumbledore's concentration slipped; the kitchen of Number Four, Privet Drive, materializing before his eyes for a brief moment. He had known, or at least suspected, that Severus had been involved in some sort of Muggle brawl with Vernon Dursley. But seeing the outcome first hand in Petunia's memory- the image burned a hole into Dumbledore's very soul, despite the fact that Severus had undoubtedly just been engaging in an especially vicious form of legillimency against a Muggle whose mind had no defense whatsoever for such an attack.

Ignorant of Dumbledore's thoughts, Petunia went on, her voice high pitched and condemning. And paying no heed to the fact that he was no less guilty of employing legillimency, albeit a form far milder, on someone who was both unaware and unable to defend against it, the headmaster closed his ears to her words, pushed his own emotions aside, and once again opened his mind to the thread of Petunia's memory.

He found she was shouting furiously at Harry, who had his wand out and pointed at his cousin. But Dumbledore could not keep his attention from being drawn back to Severus. His Potions Master was slumped against the wall behind Harry- eyes shut, skin ashen, breathes coming far too quickly, right arm cradled tight against his chest. And underlying it all, a subtle series of tremors-the quick twitch of a finger, the slight tick in a facial muscle - almost unnoticeable, but to Dumbledore's practiced eye, it hinted at things far worse than what a Muggle could do. _However had he managed to stay on a broom, and with Harry, no less?_

Petunia continued the tale, Dumbledore seeing through her eyes the events as they actually occurred, despite the much milder version that reached his ears from her mouth. Before him, the headmaster saw as Petunia finally noticed Snape, and it was clearly the last straw for the woman. Her face turned an alarming shade of purple, and the two were staring at each other, Harry's Aunt with a look of purest loathing, and Severus with a look of. . .remorse, of all things.

From there, events rapidly unfolded. Dumbledore saw Harry cast the Patronus, and saw Severus explain how to get it to carry a message. Saw what it took for Severus to pull himself to a stand after Harry had departed upstairs. Saw Harry return, idly noting that the boy now wore his glasses, where he had not before. And Dumbledore heard Severus's parting words, soft. _Lily would have cried, to see this. _

And there the memory dissolved, leaving Dumbledore once again seated at the kitchen table. The headmaster's expression remained impassive, though it took nearly every ounce of his skill to keep the turmoil of emotions he felt from surfacing. Before him, Petunia was quiet, her eyes dropping to the place settings on the table. Putting the tea cup she had been unconsciously turning over and over in her hands back in its place, she finally spoke, her voice subdued.

"Snape was right, you know. Lily would have cried to see that." She rubbed her empty hands together, then continued, "But she would also have cried to see her son attacking his Uncle."

Dumbledore let his eyes close, drawing in a slow breath, before he opened them once again, to study the woman before him. _Lily's sister_, though they bore little resemblance to each other, either in appearance or spirit.

"Yes." Dumbledore answered simply, then continued, his voice somber. "But while you are correct that your husband was attacked via magical means, it was not at the hands of your nephew. You see, Harry's spell, the one you so unfortunately walked in on, was a simple stunning charm. Capable only of knocking someone out for a few minutes, nothing more. Now, Vernon Dursley _was_ under attack – an attack on his mind- and it ceased the moment it was interrupted by Harry's stunning charm, which rendered your husband unconscious. And not a second too soon, I might add. Had the assault on Vernon gone on any longer, even Harry's action may not have prevented irreversible damage. As it happened though, Harry's spell stopped the attack in time, and as I mentioned earlier, your husband will be completely fine."

"Vernon's alright? And you—" Petunia was clearly struggling with the idea, "And you are saying that Harry _saved_ Vernon?"

"Yes." Dumbledore replied, showing no sign of his true feelings, as his mind returned to the image of Severus, lying on the floor with a thin line of blood running down his face . "And you should know as well, that Harry was not responsible for the silencing hex placed on Marjorie, either."

"Then who was- _Snape_." Petunia spat the name with all the fury a lifetime of resentment could bring to bear. "Snape – that horrible boy, always hanging around, following Lily. It was bad enough that she was a freak, but the two of them –always together, thick as thieves and twice as nasty, they were. I don't know what she ever saw in him, or our Mum and Dad, allowing filth like him from down Spinner's End in our home, but Lily finally came to her senses. Though that James Potter was hardly any better, if you ask me."

Petunia looked up at Dumbledore, her eyes narrowed accusingly, "Why was _Snape_ here? He never dared show his filthy face again after Lily finally sent him packing that first Christmas I had Vernon over."

Dumbledore let Petunia's words sink in, his mind racing. _Why indeed?_

"Professor Snape is one of Harry's teachers at Hogwarts, surely Harry has mentioned him?" the headmaster replied, as he worked to put together an explanation that Petunia could accept, silently apologizing to Severus for what he was about to do.

"Harry doesn't say much about that school- Vernon finds it distressing."

"Ah yes, I do understand. Did he mention that I was planning to call later this evening? No? Perhaps he didn't receive the letter I sent by owl some days ago, or simply failed to let you know. No matter, I had—" Dumbledore stopped, puzzled, as Petunia's expression paled and she quickly looked away, her hands once again unconsciously reaching out for a bit of the crockery. There was something there, Dumbledore mused, but he continued, "No matter, I had dispatched Professor Snape to check in on Harry, and tutor him, if necessary, with a few of his summer assignments before I came to call. Please accept my apologies, I fear I have erred, grievously so. As I see that you and Professor Snape are already acquainted, then you no doubt know that he has quite the temper."

"And knowing that, while I cannot guess what may have occurred to cause him to use magic against both your husband and his sister, I can assure you, it will not be tolerated." Dumbledore paused, watching as Petunia's expression darkened, though her eyes gleamed as the headmaster hinted at the possibility of dire consequences for Snape.

"And as well, surely you now realize that Harry is not to blame here. If you must find fault somewhere, I ask it be with me – I should not have sent Professor Snape."

"No – you shouldn't have." Petunia agreed sharply.

Dumbledore ignored the rebuke, continuing, "You will recall, also, that the magic I evoked fifteen years ago, following the murder of Lily and James Potter, meant that Harry, and by extension, your family as well, have had powerful protection from Lord Voldemort and his followers for these past fifteen years- protection that has now failed in the wake of yesterday eve's - _misunderstanding_. You see, no matter how unwelcome, nor how ill-treated, so long as Harry could this house 'home', you have all been protected. But that is something he can no longer do, as of last night."

Dumbledore paused, watching as comprehension began to dawn on Petunia, the blood slowly draining from her face, leaving her complexion ghostly pale.

"So I ask that you once again open your home to Lily's son, and allow him houseroom, no matter how grudgingly you do so, no matter how small the room. Do this- allow Harry to return until just before term starts, and I can restore the wards, and the protection over both him and your own family."

Petunia looked away for a minute, watching as the first ray of morning sunlight fell across the kitchen table, bright, cheery, and perfectly ordinary. Then she looked back to Dumbledore, sitting calmly, hands folded in his lap, his long white beard and hair neatly combed and his eyes, piercingly blue, staring at her from behind the half-moon spectacles. The stripes on the peculiar tie remained still. Outside, the sound of one the neighbors starting up the lawnmower filtered in as Petunia slowly drew in a long breath.

"I- " she stopped, taking another breath, her thin fingers clenching the tablecloth, and then continued, "Harry can return."

"Thank you. As Lily would thank you, could she see this."

Petunia nodded, blinking rapidly. Dumbledore rose, paused, then carefully reached out and picked up the tea cup Petunia had been nervously clutching only moments before. He drew his wand, ignoring the muted cry Petunia made at the sight of it, and lightly tapped it against the tea cup. The cup glowed a queer blue for a moment, then returned to its previous ordinary white, with the notable exception that now the painted flowers on it occasionally moved, new ones blossoming and the leaves occasionally fluttering as if touched by a lazy wind. Dumbledore placed it back in its spot.

"Should you ever find that you need to contact me, simply hold that tea cup and say 'Albus'; should a time ever come when you find yourself or your family in danger, hold that cup and say 'Hogwarts'. Anyone touching it at the time will immediately be transported to a safe loction."

Petunia said nothing, though her eyes were very nearly as large as the tea saucer that rested beneath the now desecrated cup.

"Well, as I'm sure you won't mind, I shall show myself out."

As soon as the Headmaster closed the door behind him, Petunia stared at the cup a moment, then she cautiously reached out and picked it up between her thumb and forefinger, and keeping it as far away from herself as the reach of her arm would allow, she carefully made her way to the bedroom. Passing the walrus-like form of Vernon, still asleep, she deposited it in the drawer of her bedside table, gingerly pushing it all the way to the back with the tip of her finger. Quietly closing the drawer, she did her very best to pretend a certain tea cup no longer existed as she headed back to the kitchen to start breakfast.

* * *

23OCT2011


	17. Escape

17 - Escape

_Looking up, Harry felt the blood drain from his face. __Dementors.__ Three of them, at least. He felt the cold only an instant before he felt their touch._

Scabbed hands, grey, reached for Harry. Wet, icy fingers brushed across his skin, numbing him from shoulder to the tips of his fingernails as if he'd stuck his arm in the freezer and left it there. He felt as much as saw the light around him dimming, sucked away, while in the distance the all too familiar sound of a woman's terrified scream reached his ears and pierced his soul. _NO! Not real!_

Blinking, Harry fought the unnatural despair, reaching for the memories he could use like a shield as he fumbled for his wand. _Ron's laughing grin. Hermione's warm smile_. Ever so slightly, the darkness receded from the edges of his vision, just enough so that he could make out the dark forms drifting before him, and between them, the empty street beyond, beckoning. Harry threw himself forward, ramming his already numb shoulder into the nearest of the dementors. The renewed contact staggered him, and for an instant, everything was dark, all hope sucked away like the outrush of a midnight tide. And then light returned, blinding bright, as Harry stumbled past the foul creatures and into the deserted street.

Heart pounding, he ran. Behind, he could feel them following, their rattling breath at his neck, water freezing into dagger-like icicles in his wake. _He had to get away_. Racing, only a step ahead of black despair, Harry tried to remember what it felt like to zoom over a quidditch pitch, the crowd roaring, the sun bright on his face- but the image twisted, and instead he recalled a moonless night, desperation, and frozen needles of rain impaling him as he tried to find his way over countless Muggle towns to a destination impossibly far away.

Harry flew down the street and around the side of the building- one, two, three doors, and then he was at their room. Yanking the door open, he flung himself inside, quickly turning to slam the door shut behind him and throw the bolt closed. Taking a step back, he pointed his wand at the door, sucking in mouthfuls of air, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. The words to the Patronus charm were on his lips, but Harry hesitated, remembering – _Don't cast any more spells until you get to Hogwarts. . . the ministry can track you when you use magic_.

At least for the moment, the door was holding them off, though he could still feel the unnatural cold raising goosebumps across his skin. Without daring to take his eyes off the backside of the door, Harry set down the bag of pies he still clutched (amazingly) in one hand. Then, fumbling along the top of the dresser he felt for the lamp switch. _There._

Flipping it on, he took one more step back away from the door, and all hell broke loose. Dim yellow light flooded the room, and at the same time, his foot caught on something behind him. Feeling himself tripping, he tried to recover, grabbing for the dresser with his free hand and taking another step back to balance himself, but whatever was behind him caught that foot too, and Harry went down, hard. Grabbing wildly as he fell backwards, he succeeded in catching the edge of his duffle, only to pull the bag down with him to land in a tangle of clothes and belongings. There was a sharp intake of breath by his side, a strangled cry, and Harry realized what he had tripped over _– Snape._ _On the floor. For who only knew what reason._

Disentangling himself from the potions master, Harry frantically snatched up his wand from the amongst the scattered mess of his most treasured possessions, lurching back to his feet as the door began to rattle ominously. Snape, still sprawled on the floor, was glaring daggers at him, but Harry hardly noticed, only dimly registering the red-rimmed eyes and change of clothes. The wood around the bolt on door was flexing, back and forth, cracks appearing, growing- _it wasn't going to hold._

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape pulling himself up to a half-crouch, half-kneel, the glare fading as his black eyes fixed instead on the rattling door.

"What-"

"Dementors! Three of them!'

Snape's eyes widened, and he looked back and forth between the door and Harry, as if he desperately hoped this was all some sort of horrible prank.

But before Harry could explain further, a whip-like crack cut through the air as the wood around the bolt finally tore apart, splinters flying. The door burst open and unnatural cold poured in, riding a tide of darkness. Harry felt terror rising in him, even as he began to speak, wand pointed at the advancing creatures.

"_Expecto-_" But he didn't finish, something was off- his wand, it wasn't right- didn't feel right – his eyes widened –he wasn't holding _his_ wand_._ _What- _his gaze darted back to the floor. His stuff was everywhere; his photo album lay on top of an old shirt, his shrunken trunk rested on its side several feet away and the invisibility cloak had spilled his mum's locked box and books in front of the bed, the box apparently popping open in the fall. He saw his own wand where it had rolled up against the dresser, at the same time realizing that the only place the wand in his hand could possibly have come from was the now-open box. _His mum's wand._

Mind reeling, Harry looked back up, seeing the dementors closing as if in slow motion. The room faded from view and the sound of screaming- his mother's screams, filled his ears. He felt his fingers go limp, and he was floating, falling in a gray swirl-

Then suddenly everything slammed back into focus, a sharp stab of pain blossoming across his backside as he landed awkwardly atop the lunchbox-sized school chest. Gasping for air, the room turned white around him, and Harry though for an instant that he was now under some new assault, but then he realized- _Snape_.

Snape crouched on the floor, holding the wand Harry had just dropped in his left hand, the right pressed across his chest, still as possible. A silvery white mist issued from tip of the wand, not a corporeal patronus, but enough to keep the dementors at bay. For the moment. The effort was clearly costing Snape- little beads of sweat stood out on his ghost-pale forehead, and the wand, Harry's Mum's wand, trembled visibly in his grip.

Harry took in the situation in a heartbeat. They had to get out of here –_Now_. Snatching up those of his possessions within reach, he shoved them back into the duffle indiscriminately, quickly moving to scoop up the remainder as well. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he grabbed his own wand, sticking it into his pocket as he stood.

"Come on, we've got to go! If you can hold them off, we can get to the car."

Snape's eyes flicked to Harry briefly, but he made no reply. Instead, using the edge of the bed for support, he pushed himself up to a shaky stand, breaths coming fast and shallow, the silvery mist wavering.

"Car?" He was blinking rapidly, confusion reflected in his dark eyes.

Harry felt a flush begin to work its way up his cheeks. Refusing to meet Snape's eyes, he took a step toward the door, reaching for his broom. Behind, Snape tried to follow, but at the first step he swayed, the unformed patronus suddenly evaporating.

Then, several things happened at once. Harry abandoned his broom, but managed to catch Snape before he fell, pulling the potions master's left arm around his shoulders, forcing Snape to lean on him for support. Two of the dementors, which had been hovering just outside the light cast by the non-corporeal patronus, immediately began to advance, one raising its hands to its hood, as if to lower it and expose that awful gaping hole that passed for a mouth on these foul creatures. And Snape, seeing this, flicked Lily's wand back up, weakly mouthing the words '_Expecto Patronum_'. Silvery mist re-ignited at the tip of the wand, though far weaker than a moment before. But it was enough to keep the two dementors stalled, Harry glancing around wildly for the third as he half-pulled, half supported Snape beside him.

Stepping over the threshold, Harry realized he had no idea where the Muggle's car was parked. Had there been a car outside the office? Or was it the one across the street? _Bloody Hell._ Stumbling to a stop, ignoring Snape's muffled grunt, Harry dug through his pocket for the keys. There had been one of those clicker-things on the ring, the same type as he remembered Uncle Vernon once proudly demonstrating to the neighbors when they'd gotten that new company car. _There_. He had it. Pulling it out, he saw it had several buttons, two small black ones and a big red one. Having never been permitted to actually touch Uncle Vernon's car keys, Harry wasn't sure exactly which button did what. Mentally shrugging, he chose the big red one, and pushed it.

Immediately, a loud claxon began to sound, and from the direction of the hotel office, a dim glow could be seen, pulsating red and white light eerily reflected in the fog. Harry felt Snape stiffen at the sudden noise, and he hit the red button again, but the alarm kept on. _Bugger-_ he knew one of the buttons had to shut it off – there- one of the little black ones silenced it.

"This way," Harry breathed, dragging a stumbling Snape along with him toward the front of the hotel, hoping the noise hadn't woken the slumbering Muggle. But luck was not with them this time, as when they rounded the corner and got a clear look at the office, the Muggle in question was standing at the entrance, one hand scratching through his scraggly beard and the other searching through his pocket for keys that weren't there. Luck was not with the Muggle either though, as the dementors hovering just outside the dim glow of Snape's unformed patronus suddenly spotted easier prey.

Horrified, Harry hesitated, but Snape had finally put two and two together and had no intention of stopping now. He staggered the remaining few steps to the car and fell against it, breathing rapidly, the silvery mist at the end of his wand flickering out. Straining to keep one eye on the dementors, Harry tried the car door and found it unlocked. Yanking it open, he helped Snape half-sit, half-fall into the passenger seat, throwing the duffle in after the potions master. Slamming the door closed, he ran around to the driver's side, and was just about to get in himself, when he abruptly turned back. The dementors were hovering over the Muggle, who was lying, unnaturally still, on the pavement before the door.

One hand on the open car door, Harry drew his wand with the other, knowing what he had to do.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _

The great stag leaped forth, bounding straight for the dementors, Harry shouting, "Get them!"

And then the-boy-who-lived ducked into the car, slammed the door shut, and staring blankly at the steering wheel before him, remembered he had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

"Keys, Potter," Snape hissed, "Start it!"

"Right – keys." Harry was still holding the keys in one hand and he stuck them in the ignition, his mind frantically searching through every movie and TV show and memory of being in the car with his family, even the flying car with Ron – why hadn't he paid attention to what they were doing? But he figured it out, eventually turning the key, and the car sputtered to life.

Looking around, Harry saw he was going to have to back up –right- there was a lever for that, he found it- shoving it next to the letter 'R', hoping dearly that it stood for 'reverse'. And before he'd even figured out for sure which pedal was the accelerator, and which brake, the car started to roll backwards. Frantic, Harry slammed his foot onto one of them, and the car jumped back with a rush. _Not that one_ – he switched pedals, jerking to a halt, throwing himself and Snape forward with a thud.

The potions master let out a muffled cry as his injured shoulder slammed into the dash, then slumped back, eyes squeezed shut.

"Sorry," Harry muttered apologetically, though looking up, he realized that at least they had backed up far enough that he could try moving forward this time. Shifting the lever to what he hoped was 'go' (he didn't see a 'G' ) he felt relieved as the car started to creep forward. Barely daring to press the accelerator this time, he stiffly turned the steering wheel, and angled out of the car park and into the street.

Picking up speed, Harry guided the car down the narrow avenue like a snake, swerving, no sooner successfully avoiding one obstacle than he'd find himself aimed at another. He had no idea where he was, or what direction he was currently moving in, only that it was _away._

. . .

Remus Lupin trailed behind Mad-eye Moody, watching as the old auror made a slow circle through the air. Below them stretched Little Whinging, the orderly streets laid out in perfect rectangles, no one out of place, and each house practically indistinguishable from the next. There was nothing to indicate that a wizard had just entered one of those houses, or that no less than four acts of underage magic, one instance of legillimency, and a silencing hex had all occurred just a short time ago, a mere stone's throw away.

Moody appeared to be sniffing at the air. Watching, Lupin idly wondered how this so-called 'bloodhound' potion actually worked, though he supposed it had already performed quite well in at least one thing - keeping three young Gryffindors fully occupied to the point of exhaustion. When Moody had collected the finished potion from them just a short time ago, Ron had already been nodding off, and Hermione and Ginny weren't far behind. With luck, Remus thought, they'd have Harry back and safe before those three had a chance to wake and plan any ill-advised teenage rescue missions.

Suddenly, Moody let out a howl, and shot off, leaving Lupin struggling to catch up on his old Cleansweep. Apparently Mad-eye had found the trail, or caught the scent, such as it was. Below, the Muggle houses flashed by as the two wizards zoomed over the outskirts of London, headed in a roughly northerly direction.

After about an hour of following the invisible trail that marked Harry Potter's flight, Lupin guessed they were somewhat to the north of the city, the land beneath a mix of country estates and the occasional small town. It seemed they were following a highway, the Muggle vehicles beneath close enough that Lupin's sensitive nose was itching at the fumes left in their wake. Ahead, a low lying fog, likely leftover from last night's storm, lay like a blanket over the land, obscuring the view of the ground below as surely as the disillusionment charm obscured the two wizards from any Muggles who chanced to look above.

Ahead, Moody abruptly pulled up.

"Trail goes down there," he said, gruff, his magical eye fixed on the gray blanket of mist below.

Despite the early morning sun at his back, Lupin shivered. Noticing, Moody grunted, " 's not natural, that fog."

Lupin's mouth formed a thin line. Harry, and probably Snape as well, were down there, somewhere in that slowly swirling mass. "Not natural? – Why do you say that?"

"I can feel it – it's not right. Feels like-" Moody's grizzled brows came together in concentration, "Feels like Azkaban. . .feels like _dementors_." He growled the word, drawing his wand. "Be ready."

Lupin paled, but palmed his own wand as well, inclining his head toward the sinister fog, "Shall we?"

Moody didn't reply, but giving the area a last sweep with his artificial eye, he turned and descended, disappearing into the thick grey swirl. Following, Lupin shivered as he felt the cool tendrils of mist curl around him, cutting off the warm glow of the sun above as surely as if somebody had just flipped a switch.

. . .

Miles away, but in a location most would find just as foreboding, Bellatrix Lestrange sat, toying with a small multifaceted cube. Across from her, Narcissa Malfoy reclined, a fur lined housecoat wrapped about her thin shoulders, as she delicately sipped a dark amber liquid from a crystal glass.

"Snape wasn't at the meeting last night." Bellatrix stated, a smug edge to her voice.

Narcissa took a long sip from her glass, letting her pale eyes drift over the sitting room, ignoring her sister. Her gaze slid across a line of formal portraits, lingering on one of her husband and son.

"And Wormtail said he never returned to that Muggle-dunghill he lives in, either." Bellatrix continued, giving the top of the cube a twist. The small object shimmered briefly, a finger sized hole appearing in one of the surfaces. Intrigued, she poked at it with her wand.

Narcissa stared silently at the portrait. It was recent, made just prior to the disastrous events of several weeks ago.

"Rabastan was quite disappointed – I think he was hoping to have a little more fun with-"

Narcissa's eyes finally turned to her sister, affronted, "_Fun?_" she said, her voice little more than a breathless whisper.

Bellatrix frowned, as if just remembering that Narcissa had been subject as well to the Dark Lord's _displeasure_ when Bella had let slip about the unbreakable vow.

"Cissy, now, the Dark Lord doesn't blame you! He understands! Draco's your only son! But still, of course you had to be punished, you should have never gone to Snape- I told you, it was a bad idea!"

"You didn't have to tell the Dark Lord about it!" Narcissa snapped, her voice suddenly shrill. But she regained her composure almost instantly, only the slightest of ripples in the surface of the remaining amber drink giving away her continued agitation.

Bellatrix's lips curled into a pout, and she abruptly changed the subject.

"Harry Potter left his home with the Muggles last night – after casting no less than four spells."

"Then shouldn't you be out searching for him?" Narcissa said pointedly.

Bellatrix's expression took on the appearance of a thundercloud, and she rolled her head to stare directly at her sister, the cube falling to her side, forgotten.

"I should be! The honor should be Mine! I am his most loyal, most faithful! Nott, Mulciber- they are sniveling fools!" she spat, "I gave Snape what he deserved!"

Now it was Narcissa who looked smug as she said icily, "Ceratinly, Bella, the Dark Lord doesn't blame you – he _understands_ – you just got a little overzealous in your eagerness- it wouldn't be the first time. But still, killing Severus, when the Dark Lord told you otherwise – that was a bad idea, of course you should expect punish-"

"I didn't kill Snape!" Bella snarled, her face gone splotchy, "That traitorous half-mudblood is hiding behind Dumbledore's skirts on purpose! Coward! "

"Perhaps," Narcissa allowed, draining the last of the liquid in her glass.

"Oh yes," Bellatrix continued, her voice a low snarl, "He'll come crawling back next time, full of excuses and explanations- filling the dark Lord's ears with his lies, trying to claim the place at our Lord's right hand- MY place, mine- his most trusted – most loyal – most-"

Bellatrix was sputtering, panting heavily, but before she gather herself to continue, a soft pop interrupted the tirade, an old house elf appearing before the two witches.

"Beg pardon Mistress, but there is a visitor wishing to see Mistress Bellatrix."

Narcissa straightened, setting her empty glass down. She looked to her sister, but before she could speak, the door to the sitting room burst open, and a tall man in a dark travelling cloak entered, showing himself in.

"Rodolphus, what a pleasure to see you so early this morning," Narcissa said, her voice icy.

"Narcissa," he nodded politely, ignoring the blonde woman's cold tone, his attention focused instead on her sister.

"Bella! Come! They've found the boy!"

"Potter! Where? Who-"

"In some Muggle village, near London- one of my dementors found him. Come, hurry – if we act now we can be the ones to catch the boy and present him to the Dark Lord!" The man replied, holding out his hand for Bellatrix, who took it eagerly, a feverish gleam in her eyes as she rose, the two of them dissapparating on the spot.

Forgotten in the silence that followed, Narcissa Malfoy found her gaze once again returned to the portrait of her husband and son, wondering how long before they were both lost to her.

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01 NOV 2011

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REVIEW! (really, it's sooo easy, the link's _right_ there...Also, if you want to ask questions in the reviews, that's awesome, but remember, I can't reply if you are not signed into or if you have PMs disabled, and I'd rather not litter my story with a bunch of long A/N's everywhere, though I have no problem answering questions...answers are easy...now, whether or not it's the answer you want... ;) )

Thanks to all those who read and reviewed, and have been waiting so patiently (and I use that term loosely) - Hope you all like this chapter. I know some of you were curious about the Death Eaters, so hopefully you find this little glimpse entertaining...even if I have left you with two or three trains, all about to collide ::evile grin::


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